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the cloak, and hoped that its influence had waned in the years since she’d used it last.
“Just holding it makes me want to put it on again,” she said. “Even though I don’t like
what I become when I wear it.”
Rondeau rubbed his jaw, and Marla looked away. There weren’t many things in her life
she was ashamed of—in her line of work, shame could be a fatal emotion—but a long
time ago she’d done something terrible to Rondeau during the cold, inhuman time that
followed the use of the cloak. When Rondeau was just a boy, Marla had ripped off his
jawbone and kept it in a jar to use as an oracle. A few years ago, when Rondeau had
more or less saved Marla’s life, she’d returned the jaw to him. It was too small to be put
back on his body, even by a magical surgeon, and he’d long since acquired a new jaw
anyway, but having it back had comforted him. It had also secured him as an ally, and
no matter how honest the gesture had been, Marla was always aware of the advantage to
be had from her kindness. She never stopped figuring out the percentages. That was
why, even though she had a reputation as a ruthlessly straightforward, point-A-to-point-
B strategist, she’d maintained her position as the most capable chief of sorcerers her city
had ever known.
Marla folded the cloak and put it on the bed. She took a long, straight-bladed dagger
from the bottom of the box, the hilt wrapped with alternating bands of purple and white
electrical tape. “And your dagger of office,” Rondeau said. “You’re planning on going
in heavy, aren’t you?”
Marla admired the knife for a moment, then slid it into a simple black leather bootsheath.
The dagger was quite sharp, a handy close-quarters weapon, but it could also cut
through the immaterial. Marla could carve up ghosts with that knife, cut off astral
travelers from their bodies, and make smoke-demons bleed. Hamil had told her that,
according to legend, the blade had been made from a shard of the Angel of Death’s
sword. The cloak was Marla’s personal property, but the dagger only belonged to her
while she served as custodian of Felport—it was a weapon of office, passed from one
chief sorcerer to another. Though it was seldom passed on willingly.
“You know I believe in choosing the right weapon for a particular job,” she said. “But I
wasn’t quite sure what this job might entail, so I brought everything I thought might be
useful. The only two bona-fide magical artifacts I own.”
“The only two artifacts I’ve ever even seen,” Rondeau said. “It’s not like you can pick
them up at garage sales.”
Actually, sometimes you could—she’d found the cloak in a thrift store—but Marla
didn’t correct him. She sank down in an overstuffed armchair by the mini-bar and
crossed her legs. “So now we wait.”
Rondeau looked at her, then at the nonexistent watch on his wrist, then back at her.
“Marla, it’s only like seven at night, and this party doesn’t start until ten. You just want
to sit for three hours?”
She frowned. “There’s a gym in the hotel, but it’s all…shiny.” Marla normally worked
out at a boxing club, all duct-tape-mended heavy bags and industrial gray paint, air
dense with the smell of sweat. “I could use a workout, but I saw a woman in there