Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) Read online

  “Wouldn’t dream of casting a spell over you,” he said, laughing quietly. He picked up a handful of dust and ran it through his hand, mumbling the entire time. The falling sand reversed, looking disconcertingly like an hourglass run backward. In only twice the time it had taken me to destroy her, Justica was restored. Rafe threw the remaining sand over his shoulder as if it were salt that had been spilled on the table instead of dust from one of the Angels’ most valued possessions. He clapped his hands together and wiped them on his pants before heading for the door. He might as well have been whistling. On his way past me, he gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Luck loves his own, firestarter. Never forget it.”

  I turned back to the new statue and peered at her more closely.

  Justica hadn’t been restored; she’d been recast. Gone was the stout matronly figure and her somber disposition. She was now a young warrior woman with a lithe shape and long limbs. Strong arms wielded a flaming sword, held tip to sky, and scales that looked more like a sling loaded with fireballs than something that might be used to measure. Her hair was unbound, and in the magic of the recently cast spell, it seemed to wreathe with fury. Worst of all, Justica’s blindfold was gone and we could now see her defiant, daring face.

  It was mine, right down to the new searing-hot burn mark on my left cheek.

  Chapter 8

  Somehow I made it out of the courtroom and back to Megiddo. I was absolutely, amazingly mortified. Sure, I’d never really wanted a Guardian in the first place, but to have left Voir Dire under such ignominious circumstances. Ugh. I didn’t know how I’d ever show my face in class again. I slipped off my sandals, wincing as my tortured feet stepped onto the bare floor and hobbled over to my new wardrobe (my clinic client from last semester had burned my old one, just before he’d whisked me off to my Manipulation classroom to try and kill me). I pulled out old pants and my longed-for pullover.

  I debated ordering food and just staying in, but I’d promised Ivy and Fitz I would meet them at Marduk’s, St. Luck’s underground pub, for dinner. And I couldn’t hide forever. I hadn’t even spoken to Ari before I’d left. I’d simply walked out. At least this time, I hadn’t run.

  I grabbed cash, keys, and clear lip balm (I tossed that damned Daredevil Red lip stain in the trash can), and then locked up and left. I was at Marduk’s less than an hour after the whole incident had gone down. With any luck, news of it hadn’t yet reached this side of campus. I descended the stairs, swung open the door, and stepped inside.

  The entire place erupted: catcalls, cheers, jeers, shouting, stomping. I stepped back in surprise and everyone rushed forward to greet me. Dozens of patrons in various states of inebriation wanted to congratulate me, punch me in the shoulder, slap me on the back, or buy me a beer. Hyrkes, I thought, mystified. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed this impromptu celebration was in honor of my stupendous loss of control. The fact that I’d made such a spectacular mistake must have made it seem as if I were more like them, Halja’s magic-less masses. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my little stunt had stuck a thumb in the Angels’ eyes. (Hyrkes tended to view Angels as the snobs they were.) I shook my head, nonplussed, and accepted the beer that someone foisted on me. It turned out to be Fitz. His hair was standing up on end as usual and his eyes were wild with excitement.

  “Hey,” he screamed in my ear. “Did you see what the special was tonight?” The special at Marduk’s was never food. “Fireballs!” Fitz hooted. I glanced over at the bar. Lined up at the edge were at least a dozen flaming shots. I now noticed little “fireballs” all over the room. I groaned, but even I couldn’t hear it above the din.

  “If this place burns,” I yelled to Fitz, “it won’t be my fault.”

  He grinned and grabbed my arm, pulling me through the crowd. He led me to a table near the back where Ivy and Ari were waiting. Ari stood up as soon as I was in view.

  I swallowed.

  Luck, he was good-looking. I suppose it was an odd time to notice it, but it was something that hit me every now and then, especially when I was feeling vulnerable. Ari had changed too. His gray tunic and black leather vest was gone, replaced by faded, fraying black pants and a white shirt that showed off his deeply sculpted muscles. His dark gaze caught mine and he stepped toward me, his signature as hot and viscous as molten glass. He wrapped one arm behind my back while the other cradled my neck. Always in these moments he seemed much bigger than me. I am not a small person, nor (as today’s events revealed yet again) am I timid or frail. That said, my Primoris ranking didn’t mean I was the stronger magic user. Quite the opposite. When I first came to St. Luck’s, Ari had been Primoris. He was one of the most powerful Maegesters-in-Training Rochester’d ever taught. He lost his top ranking because of me. He’d almost died last semester trying to protect me from my murderous client.

  Trapped by Ari’s overpowering embrace and ensnared in his all-consuming signature, I went limp and willingly let him tip me back over his arm. But it wasn’t fear that made me go soft. It was love.

  “Aristos,” I whispered. But who could hear in here?

  He kissed me then, a deep, thorough kiss that said he didn’t care how many people were watching or what they thought of us. Fists were gleefully pumped into the air around us amid woots and whistles and further shouts of encouragement (none of which Ari needed). I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around him, succumbing to the bliss of having nothing on my mind but him.

  Well, him . . . and me . . . and the things we might do together later . . .

  I broke off the kiss and turned my head. Ari laughed, a low rumbling sound I felt rather than heard. “I can feel your blush in your signature,” he said. “I don’t need to see it.” He released me and I stood up. Ivy (good Hyrke that she was) seemed charmed by the romantic tableau we must have presented. Fitz just looked wistful. Someone fired up the jukebox and Fitz recovered, yelling for a round of boilermakers. Everyone started singing:

  Gaudeamus igitur iuvenes dum sumus.

  Let us rejoice while we’re young.

  Ari grabbed my hand in his and led me over to the table. We sat down and joined in and raised our glasses and our voices with the rest.

  Vita nostra brevis, est brevi finietur.

  Our life is brief, soon it will end.

  Venit mors velociter.

  Death comes quickly.

  Rapit nos atrociter.

  Snatches us cruelly.

  Nemini parcetur.

  To nobody shall it be spared . . .

  * * *

  I awoke the next morning, my bare legs entwined with Ari’s. Everything throbbed, my body (bacchanalian pleasure had been the order of the night), my demon mark (still glowing faintly from Ari’s firebrand touch), but, most of all, my head (post-voluptatem, boilermakers sounded like a horrible idea!). I flung Ari’s possessively wound hand off of me and sat up, clutching my head and moaning. Ari continued sleeping, his tousled hair and untroubled countenance suggesting only one of two choices: (a) crawl back under the covers and curl up beside him; or (b) smother him with my pillow. I chose (c) get up, get dressed, don dark spectacles, speak to no one, find shot of espresso ASAP.

  I walked to Marduk’s and got the A.M. Grab Bag #5, which was a double shot and dry toast. Cradling my paper bag like it was Luck’s lost heir, I pulled two pieces of mail from my mailbox and slowly ascended the stairs to my dorm room. How was I ever going to make it through Voir Dire today?

  I was seriously contemplating how I could realistically work my pullover and spectacles into a professional-looking indoor ensemble when I realized, with mixed relief and horror, that I needn’t worry. I stared down at the first piece of mail, which was a typed postcard from the Joshua School:

  THE JOSHUA SCHOOL

  FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY

  NOUIOMO ONYX

  NEW BABYLON, HALJA

  ST. LUCIFER’S LAW SCHOOL

  MEGIDDO, ROOM 112

  THE HOUSE OF METATRON IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING NECESSARY RENOVA
TIONS. ACCORDINGLY, THE THIRD AND FINAL DAY OF VOIR DIRE HAS BEEN CANCELLED. GUARDIAN/WARD PAIRINGS WILL BE MADE BASED ON PRELIMINARY INTEREST AND OTHER FACTORS. THE FINAL LIST FOR THIS ACADEMIC YEAR WILL BE POSTED ON QUINTUS ROCHESTER’S DOOR BY CLOSE OF BUSINESS TODAY.

  I stopped for a moment in Megiddo’s stairwell and leaned against the stair railing. Was Friedrich making the final pairings? Luck, I hoped not. My own shrill voice mocked me: I don’t want a Guardian. I don’t want to work with an Angel. Jeffries might be out of the question now, but maybe I’d be paired with Melyn Danika. She’d seemed unremarkable yesterday, but today (viewed through my sobering morning-after perspective) she seemed downright perfect.

  I tore open my second piece of mail, a sealed letter with no return address. By the second sentence, I was sitting on the stairs and the letter was shaking in my hands. I wasn’t sure if my shaking was due to anger or fear. Either way, this second piece of news was even worse than the first. Luck, I’d been so stupid. I took my espresso and toast out of the paper bag. In between dry bites and forced swallows, I thought, not for the first time, how amazing it was that, in Halja, it took only seconds to go from contemplating your wardrobe to contemplating your own death. The letter was from Friedrich:

  Ms. Onyx,

  While my daughter, Fara, had been looking forward to working with you, I think it is in her best interest that she be assigned to someone else. You indicated yesterday that you did not desire a Guardian, therefore none will be provided.

  Your father has been contacted regarding your destruction of the invaluable and irreplaceable Angel artifact, “Metatron’s Justica.” We will discuss appropriate reparations. In the meantime, you are no longer welcome at the Joshua School.

  Venti secundi;

  daemones pauca,

  Friedrich Vanderlin

  Archangel, 5th District

  I crumpled up the postcard and ripped up the letter and stuffed them both in the paper bag with the rest of my trash. Friedrich had signed his note, “Venti secundi; daemones pauca” or “Fair winds; few demons.” On the eastern Lethe? Not likely. Guess I was on my own. It could be worse (although not much). I could have ended up with Raphael Sinclair. I shuddered. Luck forbid.

  Wouldn’t dream of casting a spell over you . . .

  Grim determination (and not a small amount of caffeine) kicked in. I stood up. I didn’t need Angels to survive. I had Luck, right?

  Luck loves his own, firestarter. Never forget it.

  I gritted my teeth. If only I could.

  After a scalding hot shower, a vigorous tooth scrubbing, and a change of clothes, I walked over to Corpus Justica. It was rare to have a Friday with no scheduled classes or activities, but I was glad to have the day to prepare for our trip to the Shallows. Once I was safely sequestered away in the stacks of the library’s tithing and tax section, I pulled out our case file and thumbed through the information. The file included the names of two possible witnesses (Thomas Stillwater, outpost gerefa, and Meghan Brun, outpost cearian), a copy of Athalie Rust’s bold complaint against her outpost lord (“Vodnik is the one who killed those men”), our scheduled departure place and time (New Babylon, dock twenty-three E; Saturday, the sixth day of the sixth month, at 8:30 a.m.), letters of introduction for us to give to Captain Delgato and to Lord Vodnik (not that any diplomatic protocol could spin Ms. Rust’s complaint into anything other than what it was: a murder accusation). Finally, there was a suggested packing list:

  100 lbs. salt (for mixing with shot and shrapnel)

  10 solid shot cannonballs

  25 cannonball shells

  250 spherical case shots

  7 short swords

  5 daggers

  4 battle-axes

  3 morning stars

  2 throwing spears

  A suggested reading list:

  Gabinius Hauerite’s Demon Patrons: Duties and Dereliction

  Serverlinus Ludwigite’s Hyrke Deaths and Disappearances (Investigative Series)

  Bato Vauxite’s Butchery, Bloodshed, and Murder (Criminal Elements Series)

  Tullio Trona’s Demon Executions: Prosecution, Protocol, and Practice

  Clodianus Agrinierite’s Halja’s Outposts: Chronological History and Cultural Analysis

  Furius Cinnabar’s Rogare Demons: Survival Strategies

  Diana Elsmoreite’s Estes and the Lethe: Cycle of Birth, Death, and Re-Birth

  As well as a suggested route of passage and a map of the eastern Lethe.

  I assumed Delgato would be familiar with the suggested route of passage, but I was glad for the map’s visual overview of the area we’d be traveling through. The only portion of the Lethe I’d ever traveled was its width. I’d been ferried back and forth from New Babylon to Etincelle countless times (and once, Ari and I had even rowed it, although not as part of some romantic holiday, but that’s another story . . .), but I’d never gone more than a few miles east of New Babylon, on land . . . or water. I peered closely at the map.

  The Lethe, like its own patron demon, Estes, was large and powerful. Here, near New Babylon, it was more than a mile across, but farther east (miles and miles farther), it branched into countless streams, tributaries, rivulets, and runoffs, each more meandering than its nearest neighbor. Some of the streams then went on to merge with other streams. Some rivulets dead-ended, curling around at their end into natural cesspools that seemed to (according to the map anyway) swirl right into Halja’s underground. Some tributaries doubled back on themselves, multiple times, producing odd little elbows, doglegs, and liquid switchbacks. On the map, these places were marked as highly dangerous, with the river’s currents racing every which way. (In Halja, water could even flow uphill if the conditions were right.) But most troubling were the spots marked as “Wild Territory.” These were the spots where we were most likely to encounter water wraiths, the most common form of rogare demon in some of the areas we’d be traveling through.

  I spent the morning locating the books on the suggested reading list. I added two others: the simply titled Field Guide, which was a collection of essays written throughout the years by various Hyrke, Host, and Angel explorers, and a slim paperback volume I’d found by accident: Oude Rode Ogen, Bicho Papao, and Grimasca: Folktales for Children. I had no idea what it was doing in our law library, but when I saw the reference to Grimasca, the demon Vodnik blamed for the fishermen’s deaths, I’d tucked it immediately in with the rest. Around midday, I stumbled back to my study carrel and dumped the books onto my desk. They landed with a great big thud. Would anything in here help us? Or would I be better off taking the books’ weight in salt instead? Salt was a known water wraith repellent.

  “Such a fierce look on such a fair face,” said a smooth, cool voice from the shadows. “What are you brooding about, Nouiomo? The merits of spear versus sword?”

  “I’m going to be a Maegester, Mother,” I said, turning around slowly, “not a foot soldier. My weapons will be wisdom, knowledge, and experience.”

  Aurelia snorted. Of course, coming from her, it sounded almost genteel. I was surprised to see her. My mother rarely left our estate, let alone Etincelle. She wore a long, flowing, forest green dress in some sort of shimmery fabric. Even in the low light of Corpus Justica she appeared to set off sparks. But it wasn’t her magic. She wasn’t a firestarter. Far from it. She was a Mederi healer (or, she was supposed to be). Her magic was the soft, nurturing, and creative kind (well, it was supposed to be), but the last time Aurelia had practiced medicine had been the night before my brother and I were born. Before the disastrous mix-up of our twin births.

  In the Host, magic is closely related to gender. Males usually inherit waning magic, or the “drop of demon blood,” that allows them to control demons, and females usually inherit waxing magic, the “growing magic” that’s used for midwifery, field nursing, and medicinal botany. Needless to say, my brother got the green thumb while I got the demon blood. My mother blamed herself, my father did too, and for most of my childhood (despite our
wealth and status), my home had been a very unhappy place.

  Recently, however, my mother and I had been trying to mend our relationship. It was a prickly path, what with her being the most ferocious Mederi, and me being the softest Maegester, to have served Luck in over two thousand years. Her gaze rested momentarily on the recent burn mark on my cheek and she raised her hand as if to touch it, but just as quickly she let her hand drop.

  “I heard about Metatron’s Justica,” she said. I cringed, but she laughed, the tinkling sound of it as out of place in this dusty library as a wind chime made of baby spoons would have been. “I would liked to have seen it. Karanos’ daughter destroying Justica.”

  “I lost control,” I hissed, upset at my mother’s enjoyment of the story. “Someone could have been hurt . . . or killed.”

  “But they weren’t, were they? Everyone loses control from time to time. What’s important is that you found a target for your wayward magic. All things considered, I think you performed admirably.”

  This coming from the woman who’d torched her garden with a match and a can of gasoline. Why was I surprised?

  “You think Karanos will see it that way?” I asked.

  For a moment, my mother looked young and vulnerable. She’d been amazingly beautiful once. The toast of the Host in Etincelle. I always tried to imagine what my parents’ life must have been like when they first married. She claimed they’d been in love. It was hard to imagine, except during fleeting moments like this. But the moment passed and her look hardened.