Don’t get your hopes up.
She stopped her happy humming and turned to glare at her cat. “Why are you acting like this? I thought you liked Julius.”
Ghost flicked his ears.He’s not bad for a dragon,but you’re forgetting the part where he’s immortal and you’re not. He likes you now when you’re both young, but when you get old, he’ll leave you.
“Don’t bury me yet,” Marci grumbled, glaring stubbornly at the mirror as she ran the complimentary brush through her short hair. “Why do you care, anyway?”
Because he isn’t worth so much of your attention, Ghost said, jumping up on the vanity beside her.He has a whole mountain. I only have you. He shouldn’t get that, too.
He finished with a lash of his tail, and Marci started to smile. “I get it now,” she said, scooping the spirit into her arms. “You’re jealous.”
Ghost huffed at her, and Marci bent down to bury her face in his soft, freezing fur. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I like Julius a lot—like alota lot—but you’re my cat. Whatever happens, nothing changes that.”
Nothing changes that,he agreed, flattening his ears.But I still don’t like how much of your thoughts he takes up.
“Part of growing up is learning to share,” she said, checking the time. “And speaking of sharing, we have to go. I’m supposed to meet Sir Myron in five minutes.”
The moment she said the undersecretary’s name, Ghost’s attention begin to slide.You can handle a human,he muttered, closing his eyes.I’m tired.
“Poor baby,” she cooed, tucking him back inside her tattered shoulder bag. “You’ve been through a lot today. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when something happens.”
She sent him a little pulse of magic from Amelia’s fire as she finished, and Ghost gobbled it up, his presence in her head curling into a ball. A few seconds later, he was asleep, his transparent body little more than a glowing shadow inside her bag as she hurried out of the room to find her ride.
As with everything else since Fredrick had tied his name to hers, this proved to be a cinch. Now that she was approved as a VIH, or Very Important Human, the staff of Heartstriker Mountain was falling over themselves to do her bidding. She barely had to breathe the wordcarbefore she was bundled into a huge, black, armored SUV with nearly opaque tinted windows and on her way into town.
A few minutes later, she discovered calling Heartstriker, New Mexico a “town” was being generous. The cluster of buildings on the road leading up to the dragon mountain was a tourist trap, plain and simple.
Enormous, boxy shops lined both sides of the two-lane desert highway, and their kitschy windows were filled with every imaginable bit of dragon merchandise and paraphernalia. Some of it was pretty clever, like the bottles of ketchup-scented novelty body lotion and the T-shirts with the fake scorch marks that read “I SURVIVED HEARTSTRIKER MOUNTAIN!” The hot item seemed to be signed hardback copies of Bethesda’s fifth autobiography,Mother of the Year,which was stacked four rows deep in every store, but most of the merchandise was standard-issue lazy tourist junk: key chains and postcards and stuffed feathered dragons with huge eyes designed to entrap children and separate tired parents from their money. It was nothing Marci hadn’t seen before at tourist shops back in Las Vegas, though now that she’d actually lived with dragons, she was surprised Bethesda tolerated her image being exploited like this. That said, the Heartstriker matriarchdidlove attention, and Marci supposed it wasn’t so bad when you were the one doing the exploiting.
But in the midst of all the rampant dragon commercialism, there were a few holdouts of actual local business. On the back side of the strip, sandwiched between the Dragon Theater and a dragon-themed buffet, was a classic American diner. It was one of those shabby, hole-in-the-wall, locals-only joints with the faded red leather booths, counter service, and pancakes sold by the stack. It definitely didn’t look like the type of establishment where the undersecretary of magic to the UN would eat, but according to the address on the card Raven had given her, this was the place, so Marci grabbed her bag with the still-sleeping Ghost and climbed out of the car. The moment she was out, the automated vehicle turned itself around and started back toward the mountain, leaving her blinking in the bright desert sun before she gathered her courage and marched into the diner, pushing open the dusty glass door with all the self-importance she could muster.
This turned out to be a lot of show for nothing. The tiny diner was empty. Marci wasn’t sure if this was because it was eleven thirty a.m. on a weekday in the middle of nowhere, or if the restaurant was deserted because the undersecretary of magic wanted it that way. In either case, there wasn’t even a waitress there to greet her, though the complete lack of customers did make it easy to spot Raven perched on the back of a large circular booth in the diner’s far back corner.
“Well,” he croaked, looking her up and down. “Took you long enough.”
Thesorrywas on the tip of her tongue before Marci remembered she was the one doing them a favor. “I was busy,” she said instead, walking around the counter as confidently as she could to get her first look at the legend she’d come here to meet.
Given the importance of any of his numerous jobs, Marci had expected to find the undersecretary of magic holding court at a table filled with aides and security. When she turned the corner, though, there were only two people sitting in the large booth. The first was obvious—Sir Myron Rollins lookedexactlylike the pictures on the back of all his books right down to his perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and immaculate tailored suit—but she didn’t recognize the extremely intimidating woman beside him. Even under the conservative black suit, it was obvious she was augmented—muscles simply didn’t grow that big on a woman without serious outside help—but that kind of thing was pretty common these days, especially in the military. She was waffling between battle mage or bodyguard, or maybe even battle mage bodyguard, when the woman suddenly rose from her seat with what looked like a real smile.
“Marci Novalli?”
Marci nodded, and the woman’s smile grew even wider as she offered her hand. “I’m General Emily Jackson, commanding officer of the UN’s Magical Disaster Response Team. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
“Sure,” Marci said, taking her hand…only to nearly drop it again. For someone who wasn’t wearing any of the normal mage trappings—no rings or wards or obvious sources of power—the general’s fingers were humming with magic. It reminded Marci strongly of the few times Julius had let her hold his first magical sword, Tyrfing, but she’d never felt anything like it in a living creature before, much less from a person. But if General Jackson noticed her odd reaction, she didn’t show it. She just squeezed Marci’s hand and sat back down, nodding to the famous mage beside her, who had yet to acknowledge Marci’s presence. “I’m sure my companion requires no introduction.”
“None at all,” Marci said, forcing herself to stay calm and not squee like a rabid fangirl. “It’s an honor to meet you, Sir Myron. I’ve read all your books.”
“They are required reading for most institutions,” the undersecretary replied, though he made no move to stand and did not offer her his gloved hand. He wasn’t even looking at her face. His attention was entirely fixed on her shoulder bag where Ghost was sleeping, and his dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Isthatyour spirit? The cat?”
That struck Marci as a weird question. She wasn’t even sure how Sir Myron had known Ghostwasa cat considering there was no way the mage could see through her bag. But he was a legend for a reason, and theywerehere to talk about Mortal Spirits, so she brushed it off and sat down on the padded bench across the booth from them. “He is,” she said, pulling Ghost out of her bag and placing him gently on the table. “I call him Ghost.”
The moment the sleeping spirit came into view, the look of bored apathy fell off the undersecretary’s face. He sat up at once, leaning forward so fast he almost knocked over his coffee. “Extraordinary,” he murmured, his gray eyes satisfyingly wide when they glanced back up at Marci. “What’s his name?”
“Ghost,” Marci said again.
Sir Myron’s look turned sharp. “Hisactualname.”
Marci clamped her jaw shut. Starstruck or not, that was not information she was comfortable giving to just anyone. She wasn’t exactly sure how it worked, but considering how much stock Ghost had put into learning his true name, it wasn’t hard to guess that spirit names were powerful mojo. Too powerful to just give away, even to someone as famous as Sir Myron Rollins. She was trying to think of a polite way to sayNo waywhen the general raised her hand.
