Stolen Magic Page 2

  My own brother has the affliction and it pained me to turn him into the Inquisitio, but there was no other way. I saved him from torture by confessing his sins, and he was executed cleanly and swiftly.

  Do I regret my choice? No. I did what had to be done to make the world a safer and better place, and I protected my family from harm. Do I regret that my brother was a deviant? I do, if for nothing else than because of the pain in our mother’s heart.

  – Rudolf Wagner, ‘A Guide for the Death of Witches’

  THE SHOCKWAVE THOSE words sent up through the gathered Heads of House was something to be relished. Viktoria bit back a smirk. Casual neutrality was best when dealing with sharks.

  She could feel Tempest’s gaze on her but didn’t look aside. They knew each other well enough for him to know that all that was required of him right now was to be her strongman, and strongmen didn’t question their boss’s ideas—even if they disagreed.

  “Um, are you serious?” Angela Reisch’s heavy Swiss accent made the words sound even more incredulous. She glanced around the table. “What happens if you get captured?”

  Viktoria didn’t laugh the statement off. Reisch’s reputation was the only one to rival her own. She assumed it was something about being a woman in a male-dominated world, and they were both heirs of a Bloodline legacy. Viktoria had only put in the extra effort required to gain a reputation like her own because she had to make up for her magical defect.

  That’s why Reisch would never surpass her in both captures as well as in advances that propelled the House forward.

  House Warner had been a staple since the 1400’s, and she intended to keep that memory alive and in high honor. That was exactly why she had to go get the wild mage herself.

  She stood and laid the remote down with a deliberate tap. “I won’t get captured. I’ll take Tempest, not a full squad. Even in Society territory, we’ll be able to move under the radar. There is no need to trigger every ward in the area by trampling through it with a dozen hunters.” She brought her eyebrow up a fraction as she held Reisch’s gaze.

  Reisch looked down. “Well, it’s your House, and your reputation on the line.”

  She didn’t rise to the bait, but with great effort. “That’s why I’m going to Kraków. I’ll suss this situation out and report back. Mira is perfectly capable of managing House Lucerne until my return. Agreed?”

  She could all but see the gears in their heads turning. The most brilliant Inquisitio minds in Switzerland, as well as that of an American liaison—because the Americans felt the excessive need to be involved in everything, of course—tried to put together the pros and cons of her decision.

  She’d be out of her House, leaving it potentially vulnerable to hostile take-over by one of them. Con for her, pro for them.

  She could get killed or captured outside of the House halls, which was another pro for them and con for her. It was likely something would happen to her in Kraków; even without a Society presence; the place was swarming with mages who would kill Inquisitio members on sight—especially her, with her reputation. Pro for them, con for her.

  She watched the lightbulbs come on one at a time within the span of seconds.

  “Agreed.” Reisch, of course.

  The others nodded or murmured their agreement.

  Viktoria leaned back in her chair and overlooked the occupants of the hall. “It’s been decided then.” A minute flutter of victory coursed through her, but she made certain it wouldn’t show on her face.

  They were all far too easy to manipulate. She had to remind herself not to take advantage of that fact too often. “All right then. Unless there are any other issues to be addressed…?”

  They shook their heads, or collated papers as a sign that they were getting ready to leave.

  “Then I’ll be in touch.” She stood. “Tempest?”

  He was already up from his chair.

  “Get me Mira.”

  He nodded and filed out with the others.

  She watched them leave and caught every glance thrown her way. Anger set her chest ablaze, but she quenched it by gripping the armrest of her chair.

  Even after twenty years of loyal service to the Inquisitio, they still didn’t trust her. They would never trust her. All because of a three-month long indiscretion at eighteen. Didn’t they know that was ancient history now? She was Inquisitio, and she’d fought her way to the top.

  And yet, could she blame them? She’d achieved more here than she’d ever have achieved with the Society, but her magic coiled under her skin, always there, always begging to be used. The desire to practice grew more powerful by the year, even with all the tricks she used to quench the thirst.

  And now the wild magic surge had ignited her magic. It pressed against her brain and set her fingertips atingle. Even with her short-lived release, she was itching to use.

  Viktoria took in the depictions of the burning times hung along the hall’s walls in gold ornate frames. If she had the skill to do so, she could have replicated them from memory. How many hours had her father sat her down in front of them? She’d stare and pray, stare and pray, stare and pray until her knees were blue and her back was screaming in agony.

  Burning, pressing, and drowning were depicted along the left wall.

  Hanging, decapitation, and stretching took up the right.

  They all served as reminders of what Christopher Wagner should have done to his daughter once her magic manifested. Reminders of what the Inquisitio would do to her if she practiced again.

  She stood and straightened. Those paintings had terrorized her childhood, her teens, and her early twenties, and she’d chosen to host her meetings in the hall for that exact reason. She knew the other Heads of House judged her for the magic in her veins, but at least here, she owned that judgement.

  The room had acquired a sense of life, fueled by pain, fear, and disappointment, and it bore down on her heavily. When she’d left, she’d vowed never to return, but here she was.

  Maybe the entity that occupied this room hadn’t been born out of those nights on her knees in front of scenes of torment and death, maybe it was her father’s ghost that lingered within the walls of the hall—within the walls of all the rooms of their ancestral home.

  Vengeance was her primary reason for heading to Kraków, but if she were to be honest with herself, she would have to admit to longing—both longing to be away from the estate and to return to a world where she’d felt most like herself. For a while, at least.

  She clenched her jaw and collected her things. Reminiscing wasn’t going to do her any good. She had to arrange a flight, pack her things, instruct Mira on the day-to-day particulars of the coming week or so, and push a notification of her absence from office through to the parties who would have to be in the know. Word from the other Heads of House would undoubtedly reach anyone on her contact list before she could, but that didn’t mean she was exempt from an official statement.

  Her heels clicked along the polished wood, then fell silent on the plush carpet in a rhythm that was both familiar and haunting. There was much to say about the Lucerne estate and her history with it, but not that it hadn’t become a part of her.

  * * *

  “This is a bad idea.” Tempest closed her office door behind him without bothering to ask if she was busy—which she was.

  Viktoria didn’t look up from her laptop screen. “I do enjoy our little chats. Enlighten me.”

  He walked up to the desk, then bent low to place his hands on the old mahogany. “It’s the mage world, Viktoria. One missed step and you’ll lose every bit of credibility you’ve rebuilt.”

  He was right, of course, but only if she misstepped. She didn’t intent to. “That’s why you’ll be there, old friend.” She dragged her gaze up. “Won’t you?”

  He looked right into her eyes, then shook his head and straightened. “You’re making a mistake.”

  The sharp twinge in her stomach reminded her of the power she possessed, of the
way she could curl him into a ball of broken bones and twisted limbs if she unleashed that kind of wrath upon him.

  She didn’t; she wouldn’t. Burning, pressing, drowning, hanging, decapitation, and stretching, those were the punishments witches suffered. Those, and long hours praying on knees that had gone purple with bruises. Words of anger and disappointment hissed at her by her father. Whispers and glances by even the lowest Inquisitio member which had persisted until she’d proven herself to be loyal again. They did it behind her back now, which was much more civilized.

  Viktoria folded her hands in front of her on the desk and met his gaze. “You’ve been my bodyguard and jailer for twenty-two years, Tempest. From the day after I returned home to beg for my place and my father’s forgiveness, you have been there. In all those years, have I ever shown signs of defection?”

  When he clenched his jaw, it squared even more than usual. The scar on the side of his neck danced. “No.”

  “Then—”

  “But they won’t care. They’ll still crucify you if you step even a toe out of line. You’ve been doing well here in your ivory tower, but when you deal with magic, you’ll be tempted.”

  Viktoria took a deep breath. “I’m always tempted.” She leaned back. “That won’t go away.”

  “But it’ll become stronger. The second we get close to a source of magic, the need to practice—to use—will come back with a vengeance.”

  He tried to stare her down, but she refused to buckle. “That’s also why you’re coming. I know you haven’t minded when I had to burn off some energy before.”

  It was a low blow, but it got the job done. Tempest looked away. “That’s different.”

  “Of course it is. It’s not magic if it’s unfocused energy release.” She stood and made herself tall.

  He ran his gaze down her body before he turned away to the window. “Don’t.”

  “You always say that, Tempest.” Her fingertips prickled with magical energy. She really had to stop this dance or she’d do something stupid. “Well, almost always…after the first few times.”

  He jerked his head back in her direction, and a mixture of anger and guilt slitted his eyes. “Those were mistakes.”

  She held his tortured gaze and relished in the satisfying mixture of hatred and desire that he always summoned in her—especially when she remembered the early days. “That’s not what you said then.”

  “It’s what I should have said.” He balled his massive hands into fists.

  “It’ll be what you will say once we get to Kraków, right before you agree to help me deal with the devil.” She resisted the urge to lick her dry lips.

  “I won’t.” He sounded adamant. His knuckles turned white.

  “Liar.” She shook her head and lowered herself back down. “The plane leaves in an hour. Don’t be late.” She drained all seduction from her voice and replaced it with cold, businesslike detachment.

  She could feel his gaze on her but refused to look up. He was right, they had been mistakes, no doubt about it, but they would continue to happen, because they had mutually assured destruction on their side. If he told her dirty magical secrets, she told him about the fact that the top Inquisitio security manager had more than a little Otherkin DNA running through his veins, although Viktoria couldn’t imagine that no one had considered the option. Once the Inquisitio found out, they’d both be dead—or worse, ousted.

  “How do you know the wild mage manifested in Kraków?” His belated response told her that he’d battled his curiosity and lost, and that he wasn’t happy about it.

  She resisted a smirk and kept her gaze on the screen where a half-finished email awaited her. “Our American hero Steven Joyce came through.”

  “How?”

  She started to type. “Don’t know, don’t care. Gather a bag.”

  The door fell shut with only a minor click, which was a testament to his character. She glanced up at the exit and sighed.

  Banter aside, he was right. As much as she wanted revenge, the odds were high that this plan was going to go up in flames and her life with it. The reward was worth the risk. Wild mage DNA—DNA that could directly manipulate the Veil—was the Holy Grail. She had seniority to go get it, and if she got it, well, that would stop the rumors forever. It would cement her reputation and position. The Wagner bloodline would recover from its magical curse, and if she was right and the wild mage DNA led to a way to seal the Veil once and for all and eradicate all magic, there wouldn’t be a single present or future Inquisitio member who wouldn’t know her name.

  The thrill the prospect sent down her spine rivaled that of the wild magic surge.

  Yes, the pay-off was definitely worth the risks.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Take heed, witch hunters, never to trust anyone not vetted by the church. And even if the Pope himself trusts a man, do no put your life in their hands unless they have been vetted by the Inquisitio.

  Only those who have been tested with the tools of our trade can truly call themselves trustworthy. Until you have made sure they have been tested, do not trust, for only members of the Inquisitio will risk their life for another hunter.

  The Inquisitio is family in a way a bond of blood can never establish—blood can be tainted, science cannot.

  – Rudolf Wagner, “A Guide for the Death of Witches”

  THE PLANE TOUCHED down at Kraków-Balice airport a little past two a.m. of a very long day.

  Viktoria worked her jaw to get her ear to pop after the altitude changes had minimized her hearing, but to no avail.

  Tempest watched her through the window while she watched him through hers.

  She lowered her hands to her lap and tried to keep herself from fidgeting. “Did they confirm the driver?”

  “I’ll check.” He took his cellphone out of his coat pocket and held the power button. “They should have.”

  “Should is not the same as did.” She rolled her head against the backrest until she could look at him directly.

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back. They never lingered for long.

  “I take it we’re going to sleep first, or am I being forward when I say so?”

  “You’re being forward.” She allowed a slightly wider smile. “But I’ll allow it because it’s been a long day. We’ll sleep, then investigate in the morning. The house will be crawling with police and press tonight. This is not the right time to investigate.”

  “Agreed.” His face was hit with the bright light of his phone’s boot-up screen and a godawful tune accompanied the device’s resurrection.

  She chuckled. In other circumstances, she wouldn’t have allowed herself to, but at two a.m., with magic in her veins and prospective Inquisitio domination on the horizon, she allowed herself the moment.

  “What is it?” He arched a brow.

  “Nothing.” She waved him off and took a deep breath. “We’ll find a way into the property tomorrow.”

  Instantly, her magic whispered to her. It showed her all the ways in which she could use it to gain entry should there be police officers on scene, or nosy neighbors that watched her. She cracked her knuckles and the siren song died down to tolerable levels.

  “How bad is it?” His voice showed his understanding, which made it even harder to hear the words; she didn’t need his sympathy.

  She bristled. “It’s fine. I have it handled.”

  “Will you ‘have it handled’ on-site?”

  They came to a stop. The engine noise died down with a high-pitched whine.

  “There will be a lot of lingering magic there.” He stared at her—examined her, it seemed.

  She met and held his gaze, but it was hard to do so with confidence. “I’ll handle it.” She made a new sentence out of every word in order to make her point.

  He hummed, then nodded. “If you say so.” Tempest looked away and glanced at the screen of his phone. “The driver is waiting at the front entrance.” He slid his phone back into his jacket and undid his seat
belt. “I’ll get our things.”

  She stayed seated and looked outside through the window until he had collected all their bags and the chilly night air poured into the cabin.

  “Are you coming?” He stood by the opened door, packed like the mule he was.

  She nodded. “I’m coming.” Maybe a good old walk on the tarmac would help her clear the brain fog. That, and a good night’s sleep.

  * * *

  The Royal Hotel was only a stone’s throw from Glowny Square, which was the—or one of the, Viktoria wasn’t sure based on the driver’s limited German and even more basic English—main square in Kraków. The queen had slept in it. Tempest couldn’t determine which queen, exactly, but the point was obvious: The Royal Hotel was the place to be if you wanted luxury.

  Looking around the room with its high ceilings, posh Victorian furniture, and expensive bedlinens on both single beds, Viktoria understood the appeal.

  Tempest shouldered past her. “I’ll set up shop.” He dropped the bags by the small breakfast table, then pulled a closet forward to expose the telephone cable outlet. A quick wiggle of his switchblade later and the cover came off.

  That’s where Viktoria lost interest. “Tell me when I can go online.”

  He hummed.

  She collected her sleepwear and headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower to wash the day off.

  By the time she came out of the shower in her silken pajama bottoms and chemise, he had the internet up and running. He sat hunched over his laptop, fedora beside it.

  When she came up to him and ran her hands through his long, thick hair, he rumbled in what appeared to be a mixture of enjoyment and warning.

  She brushed the strands aside and scraped her nail over the rough surface of one of the boney protrusions on his head. “Your Minotaur is showing.”