Edgar raised his hand. “If I may?”
I lifted an eyebrow, not quite sure what Edgar was asking, but totally willing to let someone else take the lead.
“Sir.” Edgar clasped his hands in front of him, bowed, and gave the man a comforting smile. With all that fang, though, I doubted he was comforting anyone. “Shifters are good at a great many things, like stalking you without your knowledge and snapping your neck when you least expect it. Or working together to close in on you, fighting through the pain of your spells so they can snap your neck. Or even— Well, you get the point. They are very good at killing people.” I was pretty sure I was watching a train wreck, one that would give us the reputation as the weirdest magical crew. Not that we had any competition. “But shifters are very cool and collected creatures, prone to rage but not panic. Miss Ironheart, on the other hand, is the only being in this underground complex capable of laying ruin to a powerful mage’s headquarters out of panic. Because she didn’t like being in the dark. You may not want to admit that a past Jane is more powerful than you, but…well, you’ll just look stupid if you don’t. Best board this train rather than rail against it—get it?” He paused to see if his joke had landed. The mage stared, and no one on earth was good enough to keep confusion from their expression after a talking-to from Edgar. The vampire continued, “Because when she’s not panicking, well…” He held up a shaky finger at Brochan.
“I’m Brochan Sue,” he growled. “How do you do?”
“Jaysus,” Niamh muttered.
Without comment, I turned and started walking. Really, what else was there to say? That last bit had made zero sense. I’d be a laughing stock, if I wasn’t already.
Austin lowered his hand on the small of my back in no time, and I could feel the mixed emotions through the link. Through my link to Hollace, all I could feel was his urge to laugh hysterically.
“I’m not sure if I just created an enemy, or found someone who will take pity on me,” I murmured, walking stiffly.
“He’s one of the highest-powered mages here besides Elliot,” Austin whispered. “Let’s hope it’s pity.”
Sixteen
A couple of hours later, Austin, Brochan, and I walked down a small tunnel with low ceilings, dim lighting, and rough, slightly damp walls. It was a far cry from the tunnel leading to our rooms. Light fixtures hung from the ceiling on chains, weak magical flames flickering within them. There was supposedly an exit at the end, but the tunnel was much longer than the map suggested.
“Look at this,” Brochan whispered, always behind us but now slowing until he lagged.
I looked up from the map and glanced back. Brochan was pointing to a strip of lettering above a row of men’s portraits, surprisingly clean in this dank place.
“‘Wall of Death,’” he read.
Austin looked both ways down the tunnel and then back at me before stepping closer to Brochan. I waited for a moment, not really wanting to look, but curiosity got the better of me.
Shadows flickered across a dozen or so faces, all rendered in black-and-white photographs enclosed in cheap plastic frames. Each had a date below it, and I pushed in closer when I saw the last face.
“Kinsella,” I breathed out, pointing. There wasn’t a date associated with this one.
Austin pointed at others. “Frauchini. Cross. Stokes. All mages Elliot Graves killed in cold blood, or so I’ve heard.”
“But Kinsella?” I pushed in even closer to make absolutely sure.
“Yup—”
“Hah!” I spun and flung out my hands, but instead of a karate chop, I slung a blistering spell that crackled the air and burned through a man’s middle.
He flinched and looked down, but the spell had gone right through him—and kept right on going until it crashed against the tunnel’s soft turn and sent sparks into the air.
The man shimmered, like a hologram, turning around to see the damage the spell had wrought.
“I don’t smell or sense his presence,” Austin murmured, pushing away from me somewhat, eyes on the man and ready for action. He obviously didn’t want me to get hurt in the crossfire.
The man, about mid-thirties, with slicked-back black hair and pale blue eyes, surveyed me with a little smile, his hands lodged in his pockets.
“You don’t smell or sense me because”—he lowered to a whisper—“I’m not really here…” He smiled, smug and self-assured. His image flickered a little more, then wavered before mostly solidifying again. “I think I might like shifters best of all. I know, I know, it’s out of character for a mage.” He shrugged. “But you are correct, Sir Alpha. Nice watch, by the way.”
“Yours as well,” Austin replied. “A vintage guy, I see. That is one of the rarest finds on the planet.”