He watched Martinelli clamber into the hiding place, head disappearing first, followed by the rest of him, and shook his own head in amazement. He turned to congratulate Beatrix and discovered she’d slumped against the wall, face flushed.
“Oh, no,” he said, rushing to her, recalling that her hospitalization for severe dehydration came after a spurt of knitting to save Washington and him. “Quick, drink something.”
“Really tired,” Beatrix mumbled, eyes sliding closed.
No wonder. He managed to get a canteen’s worth of water into her and then—with help from Martinelli—hoisted her into the hiding spot. A minute later, she’d fallen asleep.
He put a hand on her forehead, relieved that she didn’t feel overheated.
Martinelli, sitting next to him, murmured, “So I leave the shielding up unless someone sets off the tripwire, and in that case, I drop it?”
“Really fast, yeah.”
Martinelli nodded. “I ought to soundproof this hidey hole.”
“Good thinking.”
He waited until that was done before asking, “Is your wife in danger? Should we risk calling to warn her?”
Martinelli shook his head. “The Army records all calls, you know. She’d be in far more danger if we did. I’ve givenit a lot of thought, trust me,” he added. “I really think they’ll leave her out of it. They gave me something that first day—must be what Draden’s daughter gave you, because it made me think I should tell them whatever they wanted to know—so they’re aware Mae left me. They haven’t tried to hold her over me the way Morse has done to you with your wife.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Peter said.
“They didn’t ask any questions about you while I was under the influence,” Martinelli added, “but they pressed me for all sorts of details later. Why did you leave, what were you doing, how could they convince you to come back. I just relayed the stuff you told me before you got me under a Vow—figured that was safe.”
“Yes, thank you.” Then it hit him: The secrets he told Martinelli were no longer protected by that Vow. Like the Vows he took with Beatrix, it would have evaporated the moment his heart stopped. A single question posed to a drugged Martinelli—“what is Peter Blackwell doing in Ellicott Mills,” for instance—and Morse would have known in January that Beatrix was using magic.
She wouldn’t be here now, lying next to him. She’d be dead.
Peter gripped her hand, sick with the thought that her life was still at risk. Then Martinelli turned to him, face grave. “How much time do you think we have to convince someone to do something about these guys? I mean—let’s just assume for a moment that they build another transmitter and decide that’s close enough, it’s time to set it off …”
Peter nodded, seeing his point. “A week, if they throw all their resources at it. Two, if we’re lucky.”
Martinelli’s sigh sounded one notch shy of morose. “I don’t know how we’re going to do it. I know they claimed I was dead, but honestly, I don’t think showing up alive would be enough evidence for what I’d be saying they’re doing. It’s too wild a story. Who’s going to believe me?”
What remained of Peter’s elation was rapidly draining away. Who, indeed.
Martinelli’s breath caught. “The—the tripwire?—!”
“Hurry!”
Martinelli undid the spell around the room with shaking hands. Peter leaned as close as he dared to the edge of the hidden area and watched the laboratory door open a few seconds later.
Not Morse. Red Coat.
The wizard glanced around with a scowl and strode in, closing the door behind him. He hurled a demarcation stone at each corner of the lab and cast the spell detector. The spot where they’d vaporized Project 96 lit up white. Would Red Coat think this looked suspicious? Would he assume that Army scientists had done it?
The man brushed his hand along the walls and aimed a kick at the area where the transmitter had stood. Then he stepped into the bathroom and cast a spell that sent the stones hurdling that direction—one cutting right through the hiding place, whizzing past Peter’s nose, before hitting the wall and falling with aclunk. He gripped Martinelli’s arm. Red Coat was looking their way. He must have seen thestone momentarily disappear—realized something was amiss?—
“Myfault,” Red Coat muttered, scowling.“Myfault, he says. How wasIsupposed to see the bastards got out last night? You could barely see it in the dark! And sowhatif I’d fallen asleep? A man’s gotta sleep, for fuck’s sake!”
He cast the spell detector. He collected the stones. And he stomped out, slamming the door behind him.
Martinelli gave a shaky laugh. “Lucky he’s a bit of an idiot.”
“Damn lucky it wasn’t Morse.”
They lapsed into silence while Beatrix slept on, blissfully unaware of how close a call they’d had.
