“Die,” my mother confirms, as mundanely as she would the weather. “A Shade cannot exist without magic.”
Which is exactly what I saw. A violent shiver races down my back.
The death of our magics.
A loophole in the fabric of fate.
“Has anyone ever . . . seen that before?” My voice roughens as it shakes.
“There has been one documented case, I believe.” Where others would be perturbed by this macabre line of questioning, my mother merely looks pleased that I’ve finally taken an interest in my gift. “Around four hundred years ago. Though that future was promptly averted.”
Right. Of course. Or else we wouldn’t be here.
“So, you’re not . . . worried about it happening again?”
“I do not busy myself with the futures I don’t see, Raya—and neither should you.” Her patience finally dissipates. “Our methods are better now, more detailed and precise. If there was something to see, we would have seen it.”
Except they didn’t see it—I did. Which makes the obvious question: why?
Perhaps because they’re no longer asking the right way?I think back to Fernay’s cryptic ramblings. What if the “event” he referenced was this near-death of magic? What if that’s what prompted so many of the guild’s number to endanger their relationship with the fates? Because it was the only way to glimpse the coming catastrophe? What if, in our search for a safer method of seeing, we’ve accidentally created a blind spot that’s put us all at risk?
Or worse yet, what if I’m seeing the same unreliable nonsense as ever?
What if I asked the question wrong and misinterpreted the answer?
What if, as usual, I’m the problem?
Akari will know what to do here. The moment I escape my mother’s tower, I resolve to tell her the truth—to actually get the words out.
Where will I need to go?Consulting the future is such a force of habit that for the third time since morning, I reach for my magic before I remember that it won’t work.
Son of a—oh. The vision that assaults me lands as swiftly as a summer storm, as though the future has deigned to grant me a reprieve.
The Golden Stag Tavern. The sign is crystal clear in my mind, not abstract, as is the street it’s on and the part of the city it’s in. Not one of Akari’s usual trading spots—and far beyond the safety of the color district—but at a shimmer, I can reach it by the next bell. And when I do, I’m going to confess to everything. Killen’s spell, the open question, my deadly premonition . . . all of it, in the hopes that together, we can figure out if what I’m seeing in my head is likely to come true—and if there’s a way to stop it.
CHAPTER 10
RAYA
One thing I’ve always admired about Akari is that she walks through life without fear. To the point that, sometimes, she walks right up to the line. But since she didn’t grow up in a wealthy family like I did, I can’t judge her for doing whatever it takes to survive. Akari trades her magic because she has to, because outside the Academy, life costs money, and because the world didn’t leave her with much of a choice. And for the most part, she does it responsibly. She wouldn’t sell a spell that wasn’t legal, for instance, despite the inflated prices some of the more nefarious offerings can draw. The weakening tonics, the bone dissolvers, the property breakers and destructive blasts . . . there are plenty of forbidden Orange spells that Akari would never mess with—let alone entrust to a typic. And while she’ll cast the occasional bespoke spell for enough silver, she mostly deals in pre-made talismans and charms, specific acts of magic encased in a crystal that her buyers can activate at will.
Need to do some heavy lifting? An endurance charm can keep you going all day. Want to stop a piece of furniture from collapsing? Use a support charm to help it stay stable and carry more weight. Simple, harmless bits of magic that are cheap enough for any well-to-do typic to buy—and more importantly, untraceable once they leave Akari’s hand. She always brings a small stash with her when she visits the physical realm.
Though she doesn’t usually do her selling here. . . The Golden Stag isn’t just a seedy dump, it’s a seedy dump on the very worst street a Shadecan visit. Iron ore mixed into the flagstones, iron bars on the windows, iron spokes on either side of the door. I have to hug the shadows just to reach it, and even once I’m safely inside, the lingering taste of metal is oppressive. It’s not quite as hostile as the Church-owned taverns that bar us from entering altogether—nor has the owner invested in iron furnishings or ferrite-rimmed mugs—but it is the kind to make it plenty clear that Shades are not welcome to drink here. The kind where—if I had my own stash of pre-spelled talismans—I’d be using a Red to glamour away the spiked rim in my eyes, maybe even add some flecks of gold to better blend in with the faithful. The gilded pigment they imbibe is apparent in almost every one of these patrons, a mark of piety they wear in addition to the muted palette of clothes, their way of signaling to the world their hate of blood color.
What the hells was Akari thinking, coming here?I keep my hood up and my head down as I weave through the restless crowd. This is the exact opposite of a nice, faithless dive—though it is packed to the rafters, rich with mirth and song and just the faintest hint of violence, like an ember that’s about to ignite. A crime waiting to happen to a typic, never mind a Shade, and it’s only once I reach the shadowy enclave at the back that I realize my mistake, the reason I’ve not been able to find Akari.
Unbelievable.
I curse as I spot the disheveled figure hunched over the table by the wall.
It’s always easier to see why the question I asked was wrong than to ask the right one in the first place, and once again, I gave the future an excuse to steer me off course.
Where will I need to go?
Now that I’ve broken my magic, I shouldn’t have assumed that my tried-and-tested tricks would work the same way they did before. I can no longer rely on the fates to behave in a predictable fashion. Instead of sending me to Akari, they sent me directly into the path of a condemned boy.
Unlike this morning, there’s no question it’s him—no blood, no bruises, no swelling to disguise the sharp cut of his cheekbonesand the chiseled line of his jaw. No wince to his movements when he downs the liquid in his glass then motions to the barmaid to bring him a couple more. He’s been healed since he escaped the Academy. Which either means that he was bold enough to solicit a Green himself, or brazen enough to send his Gold in search of one when every tracker in the city is out hunting Hues. Hardly a discreet choice to be making, in any case. I think I’m starting to see how he got himself caught.
