Authors: Harry Connolly
The guard's watch lay on the carpet; I picked up both pieces. It had been cut through the band and the watch face. It was a clean, sharp cut right through the metal workings.
According to Callin's book the ghost knife cuts "ghosts, magic and dead things." The watch was a
dead thing,
of course. I held the edge of the paper against the corner of the wooden table then pressed down.
The paper crinkled and bent. It didn't work against wood.
The table was certainly dead, though. I held the paper in place again, and this time I let myself feel the power coming out of the spell. It belonged to me, the way my thumb or my ear belonged to me.
I willed it to cut, then pressed down.
The sheet of paper sliced through the table corner as though it wasn't there. The hunk of wood struck the floor with a chunky, substantial sound.
I looked at the ghost knife again. A single word kept running through my head: Power power power power.
No one else came to roust me from my chair. I looked back at the table where the woman had glared at me. Her seat was empty.
Fair enough. I turned to the other bookmarked page.
Steeled glass.
To protect against a single blow.
I moved a fresh piece of scrap paper into position and held the pen over it. I wanted to be ready this time.
Except I wasn't ready, not for that ordeal. Was I really going to set myself on fire for a spell that seemed it would only protect me from one attack? One bullet, one knife thrust, one punch from Annalise's padlock-snapping hands?
I rubbed my face, then looked over the page. The fire had hurt, but it hadn't harmed me in any way I could tell, while Annalise could tear my arms off if she wanted to. I had the ghost knife, sure, but I needed protection, too, so I'd have a chance to use it.
And there was Jon. If Annalise killed me, who would protect Jon?
It was a frightening thought, and not just because the word
kill
had emerged from my subconscious after churning around in there for hours. I was falling back into my old life. I was standing with my friends again, planning to fight their enemies. This was the person I was supposed to have left behind.
But this wasn't like the bad old days with Arne and his crew. Jon was a good guy, while Arne was most definitely not. I wasn't going to become my old self. I was going to be the good guy now.
Besides, I had a debt to pay. I had taken away Jon's legs. I'd taken walking and baseball and all kinds of things I didn't even want to think about.
So it would just be this time: one last time to do the right thing and square an old debt. Once this was finished, I would
really
straighten out my life, get a paycheck job and bore myself stupid with a big-screen TV.
And this next spell wouldn't be so bad. It was only pain. I hoped.
I picked up the pen and covered design number one with my other hand. I practiced the second design a couple times to be sure I'd get it right.
Then I looked at design number one, at the straight lines, hard corners and curving squiggles. Slowly, it began to make sense.
CHAPTER TEN
The fire filled me. I was a living furnace. But the steeled glass spell was simpler than the ghost knife, and the fire less intense. I finished the spell, then held it up. It didn't look like much, but neither did Annalise or Callin.
The pain receded. I grabbed another piece of paper. If I waited too long, I might lose my nerve. I called up the design again and started drawing, pouring my pain and energy into it. When I finished, I felt dizzy and nauseated. Weak. What was the use of arming myself with spells if I was going to be too wasted to use them?
Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.
I grabbed a third sheet of paper. My world had become very small--it was just my pain and the design I was drawing. It was as if I'd erased everything else, and when the last of the fire poured into the third design, the flames vanished and the design faded from my consciousness. There was nothing to take its place.
I returned to consciousness slowly. My hands and feet were cold. My shirt was damp with sweat. A man bent over me, holding my elbow. He wanted me to move. I realized I was lying on the floor.
"Are you all right, sir?" the man said.
I pulled my legs underneath me and stood with all the vigor I could manage. It wasn't much. "I'm okay," I lied. "Rough day."
"Would you come with me?"
I was finally being thrown out. I stuffed the blue pages into the bottom of my backpack, then put the practice drawings in there, too. It wasn't safe to leave them lying around but I was too fuzzyheaded to figure out what to do with them. Finally, I picked up the ghost knife and the three steeled glass spells. They seemed too precious to pocket.
"Let's go for a stroll," I said, trying to be jaunty and failing miserably. My whole body tingled. Casting these spells
hurt.
The man leading me through the bookshelves was a short, dumpy guy with a sloppy black beard. His longish hair lay across his forehead in wavy clumps. His shirt was stretched tight over a wide, soft gut. I immediately thought
Victim
, then quashed it. I didn't look for victims anymore.
He led me to the ground floor, through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY then down a short hallway into a small room. In the center of the room was a cheap metal table and plastic cafeteria chairs. Against one wall was a peeling counter with a sink and microwave. This was a break room. I'd only ever seen them on TV before.
"I'm Hank," the man said. "Won't you sit down?"
I did. The table was cold against my arms. "Thanks. I'm Payton."
"Are you feeling okay, Payton?"
"I looked pretty bad, I guess. I'm fine. Tough day."
"Have you eaten?"
I wasn't sure what to make of all the concern the guy was showing me, but I couldn't see what his angle was. "I'm fine." I hoped that would end it.
"I'll be back with some food." Hank started toward the door.
Just then I noticed a phone and a clock on the wall behind me. "Is that the right time?"
Hank checked the clock against his watch. "Yes, it is."
He left. I slumped forward and let my head strike the table. According to the clock, it was 6:45. I should have been at work nearly three hours ago.
Shit. I couldn't even make it for my second day.
I was tempted to blow it off, clear up this mess with Jon and then, when things were
really
straightened out, find a new one. But I couldn't. Being a citizen wasn't something I could keep putting off; once I started, I'd never stop.
In my wallet, I found the note Uncle Karl had given me listing the paperwork I needed for my first day of work. At the top of the paper was the shop's phone number.
I picked up the phone and called. Andrea picked up on the fourth ring and said: "Copy shop," in a clipped, flustered voice. I could hear a commotion in the background.
I didn't hang up. Instead I said: "Andrea, this is Ray Lilly. I'm sorry. I don't have an excuse for you. I'm just sorry."
"Ray." She seemed almost to enjoy the flash of anger in her voice. "Take beatings like a pack mule, huh? Come down here so I can find out for myself. And where is 555-0838?"
As she said the numbers, I read them off the telephone in front of me. I'd forgotten the copy shop phones had caller ID.
"I'm in a library at the University." There was no point in lying, since it would be easy to check. Any hope I had of concocting a story about a trip the emergency room evaporated. "I lost track--"
"I have
work
to do. Have a crappy life, Ray." She hung up. So did I. Damn.
There was a basket of office supplies on the counter. I took the scraps of paper out of my pocket and set them beside the sink. The spells were powerful, but the paper they'd been drawn on was fragile. I didn't know what would happen to the magic if the paper tore, or if the ink ran. Maybe it would be fine. Maybe it would explode like a bomb. But if it was anything like what happened to the cover of Callin's journal, I didn't want to find out.
I took a tape gun out of the basket and laid out a long strip sticky side up. Then I laid out a second, letting it overlap the first slightly. By some miracle, there were no wrinkles. I laid the ghost knife face down on the tape, then laid two more pieces of tape over the back.
There was a pair of scissors in the basket, too, and they were surprisingly sharp. I trimmed the edges and held it up. Poor man's laminate. Eventually, the tape would yellow and curl, but it would protect the ghost knife for a little while.
I sure as hell hoped I didn't need it longer than that.
I did the same thing to the three steeled glass spells next. As I was slipping them back into my pocket, Hank returned.
"Why don't you eat something?" He set a box on the table. There was a small stack of napkins and a pair of bran muffins inside.
My stomach flip-flopped. I picked up a muffin and bit into it. It was dry and bland and wonderful.
"I didn't realize I was hungry," I said around a mouthful of muffin. As apologies went, it was pretty lame, but Hank didn't seem to care.
"I'm sorry it took so long to return with them. I had a couple things to take care of out front."
I brought out my wallet. Hank waved at me to put it away. "I should pay for this food," I said. The earnestness in my voice surprised me. I wasn't a charity case. I didn't want to owe a debt to this guy.
"They're leftovers from a staff party. If you don't eat them, they'll be thrown out, so please enjoy and don't worry about it." I couldn't argue with that. I shrugged and put my wallet away. "So, Payton," he said, "are you taking any medications?"
It took me a moment to remember that I'd given him a fake name. Luckily, I'd already taken another bite of muffin and had an extra moment to get my thoughts together. "No. I've had a hard couple of days. Seriously, I'm not taking drugs and I'm not high or anything. Just stressed out." I took a small bite. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Helping me. You don't know me." I watched Hank's expression, trying to figure out his angle. Karl and Theresa had helped me because Theresa was my mother's sister. Andrea had hired me to get close to Jon. Jon had been my friend for years, even if I didn't deserve it. But this guy was a stranger. He didn't have any connection to me and I didn't have anything he wanted. He'd even turned down my money.
He shrugged. "It's the right thing to do," was all he said.
Yeah. Right. I was about to press further when we both heard police sirens approaching fast.
"Wonder what that's about?" Hank said. He stood. "I'll be right back. Do you want some milk? Or a soda?" I shook my head. Hank walked out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, I bolted to the window. The break room overlooked the parking lot and I watched two patrol cars pull into spaces. Four uniformed officers stepped out. One of them was my Uncle Karl and shit, did he looked pissed.
They strode toward the entrance of the library. I had no doubt they were coming for me, and I knew how they'd found me. Andrea had to have tipped them off.
I knew Karl wouldn't have that expression because I'd stayed out and skipped work. It must have been Echo.
I wasn't ready to answer questions about her death. I scooped up my backpack and slipped the ghost knife into my right hip pocket and my three steeled glass spells into my left. Then I pushed a chair up to the window.
I couldn't run out quite yet. I grabbed a pen out of the basket and wrote
Thanks
on a paper napkin. Then I wriggled through the window and ran.
Three damn days and I was already running from the cops, and from my uncle, too, who was letting me live in his home. I jogged to the far side of the parking lot, trying to figure out how I could avoid prison. I hadn't hurt Echo or Payton. I'd tried to save that old man. I'd stolen a book, sure, but the owner had it back already. I didn't
deserve
to go to prison again, but I had no idea how I was going to avoid it.
A light rain fell. I stepped onto a walkway, slowing my pace to a casual stroll. I'd draw less attention that way. Still, I was a pedestrian on the run again. I needed a car.
I set my backpack on a bench, opened it and pulled out one of the practice drawings, letting the rain spatter it. The ink didn't run, but the paper soaked through. I shredded and wadded it, then dumped half into a trash can. I moved on to another trash can and threw out the other half.
I did it again with the next practice drawing, then the next, wandering around the campus and checking out the pretty young women. The last drawing went into a pair of cans by a cafeteria.
I walked down a flight of stairs into a vacant study area. It was a sunken, tiled mini-park with square cement tables and foliage all around. On a dry afternoon it would be filled with students. At the moment it was empty.
I needed a new edition of the paper to see what they were saying about Echo's death. I also needed a way to approach Jon without--
"Ray!" someone said.
Damn. They found me. I turned, prepared to act surprised. But it wasn't a cop who'd called my name, it was Jon Burrows.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He was wearing the same clothes from last night, but then, so was I. "Jon? What are you doing here? Are you a student or something?"
"Naw," Jon said. "I followed your uncle. We looked for you last night, but you disappeared. What happ--"
He stopped several paces away and sniffed the air. When he spoke next, his voice became low and steady. "You have that smell on you."
I wasn't sure what he meant. I was sweaty from the effort of casting the spells, and maybe I hadn't cleaned my jacket well enough. "I didn't get a shower last night," I said. "Is it that bad?"