“Beatrix Blackwell,” Tanner said, ice in his stare, “you’re under arrest.”
Morse didn’t doanything to him. Not a thing. Wouldn’t give him something to eat. Wouldn’t provide him with water. Wouldn’t let him up to use the bathroom. Wouldn’t let him out of the chair at all.
Hours passed. When the inevitable happened, he breathed in the stench of Morse’s attempt to humiliate him and thought of Garrett, leaving him stuck to the cellar wall under the assumption that Beatrix would eventually find him in this state. Part of the dirty-tricks squad’s basic training, no doubt.
What did it matter? Nothing could make the day appreciably worse than it already was.
He thought he wouldn’t fall asleep, but eventually he did, only to wake in confusion at a noise—the hum of lowered voices.
“ … want to do about it?” Morse.
“It’s unfortunate.” A different voice. Clipped. Annoyed. “But it doesn’t matter at this point, does it? Let’s get this over with.”
Unmistakably the vice president.
Morse flipped on the light. Peter squinted, blindness giving way to the sight of James Draden, frowning at him.
“Could you please …?” Draden waved a hand in Peter’s direction, nose wrinkling.
Morse cast a spell—quickly, silently. The smell faded. Peter’s thirst and hunger remained.
“Get him up,” Draden said.
Whatever spell had held his muscles in check had long worn off, but the magical bindings tying him to the chair were still in place. Morse removed those and hauled him up by a shoulder, at which point Peter—lightheaded, legs rubbery—tumbled to the floor.
Draden—to his surprise—held out a hand. The momentary consideration thatthiswas Marbella induced him to take it, just to see, but no—the vice president, a good four inches taller than he was, had no trouble helping him up. Draden’s skin had the metallic feel of a powerful protection spell.
“Blackwell,” Draden said coolly.
“Water,” Peter croaked back.
Draden cocked his head at Morse. Morse produced a canteen with another one of his silent spells and handed it over, his dark look suggesting he might have added poison to it if the recipient’s skills weren’t in demand. Peter gulped it down, not caring what was in it.
“Now, then,” Draden said, crossing his arms. “I will take a Vow, but only if you take one to Morse.”
Peter, gripping the back of his chair for support, stared at the man in consternation. “I—I can’t.”
“You will. Otherwise I won’t. Fair’s fair.”
Fair’s fair.Peter almost laughed. Nothingin the past twenty-four hours could be categorized as even a distant cousin of fair. And now his Hail Mary to protect Beatrix was going to fail because he couldn’t cast.
Draden handed something to him and he took it automatically. Two pieces of paper. The would-be Vows.
He sat on the chair and looked them over, feeling the futility of it. On one page:I, James Richard Draden, vow to take no actions intended to harm Beatrix Jane Blackwell. I further vow not to order anyone else to take actions intended to harm her.
On the other:I, Peter William Blackwell, vow to work on my assigned project to the greatest possible extent of my abilities, as rapidly as possible, until those supervising me declare the assignment to be complete. I further vow to take no actions intended to prevent the completion of that assignment to the satisfaction of those supervising me.
Then it occurred to him—the one way he might still get Draden under a Vow. He held out a hand and said, “I need a pen.”
Draden handed him one. Peter drew a line between “no” and “actions” on the vice president’s contract and wrote “direct or indirect.” He drew another line after “I further vow not to order anyone else to take actions intended to harm her” and added “in any way, and vow I will proactively tell anyone likely to harm her that I will ensure the stiffest possible prosecution if they take such actions. Finally, I vow to follow through on such threats if any harm to Beatrix Jane Blackwell is nevertheless carried out.”
He handed it back to Draden and frowned at the contract they expected him to sign. The words flickered until he blinked, hard, to force his eyes to focus.
“It needs an end date,” he said.
“No,” said Draden, not looking up from the other contract.
“I’m not signing something so open-ended. What’s to keep you from altering my assigned ‘project’?”
