“It’s me,” Bernie said. “I can keep my end of the wild-goose chase going for thirteen minutes, and then I run out of steam and can’t manage any more teleportation jumps.”
She glanced at Hartgrave. “How much time do you need to get to the tracking program?”
He looked none too happy about the conversation, but he answered the question. “About three minutes. It’s in their cellar, and we can’t jump directly into the building.”
She bit her lip. “So I have ten minutes to take out the magical safeguards. Is that possible?”
Hartgrave shrugged. “It would take me an hour.”
“You know what sort of magical security system we’ll be facing?”
He nodded.
Well—that was fortunate. “Can you set up a simulation for me?”
“Yes. Better sit,” he added, gesturing to the chair by the beds. “This will take a while.”
He and the other men spent at least ten minutes casting magic indistinguishable from the air around them. Finally, Bernie—voice muffled—said: “Okay, Em! Have at it.”
She stood and inched forward, expecting booby traps.
“It’s the same sort of defense you got through last night, only more so,” Hartgrave said. “Barriers upon barriers upon barriers. Stop when it gets to be too much.”
She stepped toward the men, palms out, until she met resistance—a faint flash ofsomethingrippling away from her fingertips like water disturbed by a stone.
At first she made excellent progress, even though every obstacle that fell had another right behind it, sometimes as close as an inch. After a while, however, she felt as if she’d been out in the sun too long. Drained. Parched. Worse than farm work on the most uncomfortable day of summer—even concentrating was a struggle.
She thought of the people whose lives would suddenly be at risk when they discovered magic. And of Hartgrave claiming her help had been forced on him. She pushed onward.
He caught her as she stumbled through the last barrier, her legs shaking, ears ringing. Bernie and Willi were both jumping about, whooping like madmen. The sight made her giggle. The giggle sounded so ridiculous, she laughed.
“Ten minutes, three seconds!” Willi pulled her in for a hug, catching Hartgrave as well since he was holdingher upright, which struck her as even funnier. “We can do this—we can actually do this!”
She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, which might have had something to do with her inability to stop laughing, and that wasalsofunny, though slightly less so if she blacked out from lack of oxygen ...
Oh God, what was happening?
“Water!” Hartgrave scooped her into his arms and rushed back the direction she’d come. “Hurry!”
Into the chair she went. A bottle was pressed to her lips; she drank until it was empty. Then she slumped back, like a marionette with its strings cut, and couldn’t manage even so much as anI feel terrible.
Someone—Hartgrave?—put a cold compress over her eyes. It helped. A little.
“Are—are you all right?” Definitely Hartgrave.
Her answer was more groan than assent.
“Damn it, why didn’t youlistento me?” (Still Hartgrave. Of course.)
His face came into view, pinched, as he switched the damp cloth with a freshly cooled one. “Where does it hurt? What are your symptoms?”
“Hot, tired, achy.” She considered adding “intoxicated,” but that sensation had passed. “Is that how it was for you yesterday?”
“Not exactly, but the result seems to be every bit as incapacitating.” He made an aggravated sound that was almost a growl. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.Don’t overdo it. Perhaps you’ll eventually manage ten minutes without hurting yourself, if you practice, but don’t even think about pulling a stunt like that again.”
She had enough energy to remove the second facecloth and grin at him. “What was that you said about more practice?”
His glare communicated one emotion. His tense shoulders relaxing betrayed another. “I think you’ve had quite enough for one morning.”
