as well as the people at her damned shop. She may have mentioned something to them.”
“Or been working with them outright,” Eben put in. “We need to send people there, Arthur.”
“Yes, of course.” He directed a look at Beatrice, who nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
Unless they wanted to risk an international incident of untold proportions, they couldn’t operate within another country without first performing an intricate, bureaucratic dance.
Arthur closed his notes. “In the morning, I’ll be sending out an official notice of Lettie’s passing and advise caution. Security here and at the safe houses has already been alerted. We’ll put Diviners on it, but they’ll need guidance.” He frowned at Quentin. “The more specifics you can get them, the better.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. No getting around it, he’d have to reexamine the vision. “Are we certain Idris is behind this?”
“We’ve got Cormac. That’s certain enough.”
Again, Quentin was tempted to voice his concerns regarding that one image. But, as he well knew, moments of stress—especially the moments before death—could bring on extreme clarity such as he’d perceived.
“What of her family, Arthur?” Leslie asked, apropos of nothing. For a moment, Quentin thought she was accusing Leticia’s relatives of murder. Others must have thought that, too, given the stunned silence which followed.
Looking bewildered, she clarified, “They should be told of her passing.”
Arthur shook his head. “The regulations are clear. There can be no exceptions.”
“Couldn’t we contact them anonymously? It isn’t right, leaving them to find out on their own.”
“No, my dear,” Damian broke in before Arthur could respond. “Even if it weren’t against the rules, in the case of a suspicious death—especially when there isn’t even a body—it would only bring trouble. If her family were to contact local authorities and demand justice, perhaps speak to the press....” He let his voice trail off, then, gently, “You see why we can’t risk it?”
“We must allow this to take its course.” Arthur, having removed his glasses, took a moment to adjust the bend of an earpiece. “Her family will learn of her passing in their own way.”
“When she doesn’t answer letters, or call on the phone?” Leslie’s eyes were wide. “It’s too cruel. Surely we—”
“It is how it must be,” Beatrice said over Quentin’s groan of exasperation. His hip was reminding him—strongly—how long he’d been seated. “Leticia understood that her family was not to know of her life with us. To make contact would not only break our trust but hers as well.”
“Be careful, everyone,” Arthur instructed, replacing his glasses. “Advise several people where you will be at all times, and try not to go out alone. Reinforce any protection you’ve got on your homes and anything you might carry. We’ve been taken by surprise here. It must not happen again.” He returned the papers to his case, engaged the locks.
Quentin reached for his walking stick.
“I will be planning Leticia’s memorial service,” Beatrice said quietly. “Something to honor her spirit. If anyone has any suggestions, please email them to me. Thank you.”
Ignoring Leslie, sobbing anew, Quentin pushed himself to his feet and began to make his way out of the room.
Cumbria, Northern England
There wasn’t time for this. If Idris expected to get the relic in time for Samhain—only three bloody days away—then he needed to leave Cormac alone to deal with what had clearly become a complete cock-up. Instead, there it was, the undeniable prickling as the old man requested his presence.
Request. Such a polite term with its implication of choice. A surge of anger caused the fragile glass in Cormac’s hand to shatter, dousing him with vintage Armagnac. Flames hissed, feeding on the precious drops, as a dissonant rain of lead crystal fragments fell upon the hearth. What should have been savored, gone in an instant. He hurled the snifter’s broken stem into the fire, watched it strike a brick of peat, then roll to an anticlimactic stop against the grate. Hot anger drained, leaving cold fear in its wake.
He inspected his hand for damage, then—finding none—brushed it on the velvet of his coat. Diamond-like fragments and drops of brandy glistened on the black. That would never do. He vanished them all with a tiny pull of power and a flick of his wrist, then accepted the summons.
He felt the transition almost instantly and opened his eyes to inky blackness. Still, he knew exactly where he’d materialized. The stale, icy air reeked of dank stone and old fear. The silence held a particular weight, oppressive and familiar; sound didn’t travel well through miles of winding passageways carved deep into the belly of a mountain. Cross Fell, it was called now. The older name was more apt.
Fiend’s Fell.
“Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.”
At his muted voice, bespelled crystals flickered to life and showed he’d been right: the summons had set him outside the Sorcerer’s chamber. As usual—and despite the urgency of the situation—he’d be forced to wait. More proof of his subservience or some such rot.
His breath misting in the chill, he glared up at the statues that bracketed the chamber doors. Two granite representations of the man himself, obnoxiously oversized. Each outstretched hand held a glowing orb—the powerful Sorcerer offering illumination to the lowly. So very pretentious, really—and threatening, too, if one interpreted the orb to symbolize bælcraft. Energy collected and shaped into something which could then be “thrown” with, depending on one’s skill and intent, varying degrees of accuracy and strength Magic, weaponized.
Cormac adjusted his cuffs. Use of his Sight would get him an approximate tally of the stronghold’s current inhabitants, but it would also land him in even more trouble if detected. Given his luck lately, it would be.
All he’d wanted was one night at home. One damned night so he could replenish his energy and consider how to keep his errors with Leticia from becoming catastrophic. Instead, he’d had less than an hour, only enough time to eat his Sainsbury’s ready meal and pour himself the brandy.
His jaw clenched. That had been a favorite glass, the last of a set from 1763. Irreplaceable.
Metal clanked inside the chamber as the lock dis-engaged. He drew himself up, head held high, and clasped his hands behind his back. As the doors eased open, wood sliding across stone, a wave of power-fueled rage struck with the force of a speeding lorry. He staggered across the threshold—not at all the entrance he’d wanted to make—only to be hit again.
So much power. Wave after wave of it, flowing from and returning to a single source at the other end of the room.
As suddenly as it had begun, the assault ended. The energy currents continued to swirl through the vast, nearly empty chamber, but they no longer targeted him. He strove to regain his composure along with his previous pose: shoulders back, hands clasped, expression neutral. The look of a calm, confident man.
Pretense, every bit of it.
He began the long walk to the dais, his boot heels clicking the deliberate, easy rhythm of his stride. The wall-mounted orbs gave off only a faint, wavering light—hardly enough to see by. Idris preferred it that way, sadist that he was. A blow unseen, unanticipated, carried more force.
At the base, he halted, kept his gaze respectfully low while unease skittered down his spine. His mouth was dry to the point that he had to swallow before speaking. “Athair.”
The