The first clear thought that entered Caren’s mind was that she’d been struck deaf. Because she could still see Sauvage’s mouth moving, but she couldn’t hear any of the words coming out of it.
The next moment, a pain lanced through her chest, so sudden and sharp that she doubled over, fighting to breathe.
When she finally did hear something, it was her own name, far away and strange, as if whispered underwater.
Navarrete.
Navarrete…
Caren!
She felt hands on her shoulders. Lurched upright with a gasp.
Grenville’s face swam in front of her, his baby-deer eyes round.
“You all right?” he whispered. Dimly, Caren registered Sauvage still speaking in the background. “You look ill. Did you know him? This Luke Langit?”
Caren took another gulp of air, found her voice. “It’s…not that,” she ground out. “It’s just the stupid fucking agimat in my”—she clawed at it—“chest.”
“‘Agimat’?”
“Amulet. Implanted. It’s a Filipino thing. This one’s defective, has been for years.”
“If it’s defective why haven’t you had it removed?”
“You really gonna ask me twenty motherfucking questions right now?”
“Sorry. Let me escort you to Medicinal Magic.”
Caren batted away Grenville’s hands. “No, fuckin’—stop—just—it’s fine. It happens now and then. It’ll pass.”
Grenville showed her his palms and backed away. Caren stood on wobbly legs, doing her best to ignore the burning. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
“…has claimed responsibility for the attack,” the Master-General was saying, to a chorus of murmurs. “This individual is a factionless ganglord known simply as ‘Lex.’ We know little about this person and his or her cohorts as of this time; only that he or she is a newcomer to the Philadelphia apostate gang scene, and has accumulated a good deal of influence in just the past few months.
“As many of you may have deduced by now,” Sauvage went on, “our hands are presently tied when it comes to apprehending this ‘Lex.’ He or she carried out all twelve slayings in neutral territory, and—yes, preposterously enough—none of his or her actions, that we know of, technically violated interfaction law.”
His audience buzzed angrily. “This ‘Lex’ is making a mockery of us!” someone shouted.
Abram Sauvage raised a hand, eliciting silence. “Please believe me when I say I share your outrage. As does Archmagus Weyland, who has called an emergency convention of the Auctoritas Magicae, at which he will personally demand remedy for this…onerous technicality. In the meantime, however, we must be patient. Rest assured: We will wage war against Lex. But we must do so with strategy, and caution, and through…” His gaze, as penetrating as his daughter’s, descended on Caren. “…indirect means.”
Caren stared back, unable to comprehend. Everything, her whole world was the fire in her chest.
“Your orders for now, every one of you,” Sauvage went on: “Collect every shred of information you can regarding the whereabouts and activities of ‘Lex.’ In particular, seek evidence of any interfaction crimes committed by him or her and his or her associates.” He paused, surveyed the room grimly. “Remember: A war against an enemy this ruthless and clever will not be won through zealous acts of vengeance. We must be circumspect. We must be patient. We must…bide our time.”
His eye fell on Caren once more as he stepped away from the podium, as a hum of tense murmuring rose to fill the silence he left behind.
The Master-General paused to whisper something to his second-in-command, woolly-silver-maned Lieutenant-General Ambrose, then exited briskly, leaving Ambrose behind while the rest of his entourage—including Imperia—followed.
Peri caught Caren’s eye briefly before exiting the room.
Grenville was saying something again, tapping her shoulder—a dull sensation—but Caren had once more zoned. The pain in her chest had waned to a persistent throb, and her head was full of static.
It probably wasn’t really him. The Namer got it wrong somehow. Fucking asshole Luke is never where he’s supposed to be.
It probably—it definitely wasn’t him—
She looked up, blinking her eyes clear—and noticed Lieutenant-General Ambrose muscling his way through the crowd, straight toward her.
“What the—?”
“Caren Navarrete,” he barked, parking his wide frame in front of her and hooking his thumbs in his sash. “Apprentice Ashton Grenville.” He jerked his shaggy head. “Both of you, come with me.”
Caren glanced at Grenville, who looked bland-faced as ever, though something in his eyes told her he didn’t know any more what this was about than she did.
Ambrose led the pair of them into a small study off the main hall, beckoned two Ordinators to guard the door, and shut it forcefully behind him.
“Grenville,” he said. “You’re being promoted to Savant. Master-General’s orders.”
“Savant?” The word escaped Grenville’s lips as an adolescent squeak.
“Master-General wants you to take point on this ‘Lex’ investigation. He said you’ve got unprecedented…‘forensic’ capabilities?” By the look on his face, Ambrose had no idea what the word forensic meant. “Orders are you’re to pair up with Navarrete here. She’ll be the muscle, take care of any dirty work that might come up, seeing as till this jurisdiction business is sorted it’s important you keep your own hands clean.”
“I’m…honored, Lieutenant-General, Sir.” Grenville snapped his heels in a salute.
Caren still felt blank, barely processing any of it.
Ambrose surveyed her. “You look like you just ate a lemon, Navarrete. Cheer up. We’ll be paying you a full ten grand up front. And if you and Apprentice—er, Savant Grenville deliver on this, you’ll end up with enough to live on comfortably for at least a year.”
His eyes remained expectantly glued to her for so long that Caren finally reacted by forcing a nod.
“Excellent. Dismissed!” Ambrose started for the door.
“S-so me and Daddy’s Boy here are going after the person who…who…?” Caren heard herself blurt after him.
Ambrose frowned and looked at Grenville. “Not too quick on the uptake, is she? You’ll keep her on task, right, Savant?”
“Sir, yes, Sir.”
Ambrose left.
Grenville moved in front of Caren and peered at her, frowning.
“Congratulations,” Caren muttered. “Look, I…I gotta go.” She pushed past him toward the door.
“You sure you’re up to this?” Grenville’s tone stopped Caren in her tracks.
She turned back to him.
He studied her closely. “Nothing like, say…a conflict of interest is gonna compromise your ability to perform your duty in this case?”
Caren smirked wanly, swaggered a step or two toward him. “It’s not my ‘duty,’ baby bear… It’s just my job.” Her chest gave a sharp throb. “And no, believe me—nothing will get in the way of me seeing this through.”
Grenville searched her gaze thoroughly. A subtle relaxing of the muscles around his eyes suggested her answer had satisfied him. “Begin tomorrow?”
Caren slid a card from her wallet, scrawled an address on the back with a pencil stub from her pocket. “Can’t do any earlier than four. In the afternoon.” She jabbed the card at him.
“Four in the afternoon’s fine…this time.” Grenville stowed the card in his robes.
“Dope. Seeya.” Caren turned away.
“Wait. Don’t you want your money? For the bounty on your uncle?”
“Bring it tomorrow.”
Caren slouched her way through the crowd in the main hall without looking back. Headed out into the streets, where the wailing of the mourners continued. The nearly-full moon, glamor-striped, gazed down on her like an eye.
As Caren put the Ordinators at the front gate and the Ostiary-staffed parking garage behind her, the mists once more began to close in. A few paces further—a few drops of cold rain—and she didn’t need to look back to know Arcadia had evanesced behind her. A glance over her shoulder would have revealed nothing but pine trees for miles—jet-cloaked sentinels, stern against a grayscale sky.
Caren reached her car, shuffled aimlessly in place for a moment. Pawed her Marlboro Reds out of her jacket pocket. After all this time, her hands were still shaking, so hard she almost dropped the pack.
The first drag centered her slightly. Brought her attention to the constellation of raindrops glistening on her driver’s side window.
“All done,” he said.
Caren blinked stars from her vision, like the web of brittle snowflakes that spangled her bedroom window.
Her chest was on fire.
Luke’s dimpled smile filled her view. She gazed into his beaming eyes; breathed in, breathed out…in again, out again, to ease the pain.
“You okay, Care?” He lifted his hand, touched her cheek.
Caren gulped down tears and nodded.
“It’ll take some getting used to,” he said. “But from now on, anytime you think about this”—he pecked her softly on the lips—“kiss”—his cheeks split in a warm grin—“this agimat, right here…” He laid his hand across her heart. “It’ll heal you and protect you.”
Caren gasped and doubled over against her car as a fresh fire erupted in her chest.
“Liar!” she roared into the night.
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