The lanky guy is just getting into the back seat of a swanky sedan that’s pulled up to the corner. Swallowing a curse, I stride by as if I haven’t even noticed him and grasp the nearest tickles of ephemera. As the car’s engine growls, I toss a strand of magical energy toward it, keeping one end in my grasp.
The sedan zooms out of my view in a matter of seconds, but the spell I shaped tugs at my fingers. I’ll be able to follow its trail as long as he doesn’t go too far.
I pick up my pace, dragging more ephemera toward me. The concealment illusion I wrap around me dulls the stink of car exhaust from the other vehicles rumbling by.
As soon as I’m sure none of my classmates should notice me, I speed up to a jog.
My morning exercise sessions have kept me limber. I barely break a sweat as I track the sedan’s course block by block, sensing where it paused at stop signs and red lights, where it accelerated on a longer stretch unhindered.
Its course leads around the edge of our upper crust lucent neighborhood. I’m starting to wonder if Grady was simply going home when I sense a longer pause halfway down a block of majestic Victorians-turned-business offices.
I slow down before I come up on the spot, taking in the street around me. It feels like Grady must have gotten out here, or why would the car have stopped?
Was he visiting the law offices, or this architectural firm, or?—?
My feet stall just before I reach the exact spot where the sedan briefly parked. Fern-like concrete moldings jut from the maroon bricks along the corner of the building in front of me.
I’ve seen those decorative fronds before. In Other Elodie’s photographs.
I dispel my tracking thread but keep my concealment illusion around me as I study the building. It’s a three-story Victorian like those around it, clean white paint framing the arched windows and front door, polished wrought iron railings on either side of the front steps. There’s no business sign on the railings or the brick face.
I peer down the narrow alley beside it and make out a side door most of the way down. Venturing that way, I find a walled patio off the back. No sound carries from it, but a thick layer of ephemera tingles against my awareness. A whiff of a floral scent suggests some kind of garden.
Either this back area doesn’t get used much or it’s magically sound-proofed. Based on the amount of energy gathered around the space, I’d bet good money on the latter.
The photos Other Elodie snapped were mainly of the side alley, but I have no idea why. The windows low enough for me to peer into are cloaked by thick brocade curtains.
Sliding my phone out of my satchel, I return to the front of the building. With my shoulders propped against the corner of the architecture office next door, I can keep an eye on the front and side entrances without risking anyone bumping into me.
While I watch, several more cars pull up. The first few let out fellow Luminary Academy students—all 13thyears or older. The only figure I recognize by name is Kenneth Hearst, the other survivor of my reality’s unsolved student murders, his head ducked as he trails behind his older brother to the front door.
With each arrival, someone just inside the door gives a warm but formal greeting by name. It doesn’t sound like I could just wander in there to see what the deal is without being vetted.
As the workday winds to an end, an older set of patrons starts departing their chauffeured cars, ranging from a guy in his early 20s who I think would have only graduated a couple of years ago to a portly man with a cane and bone-white hair.
Every piece of clothing they’re wearing looks designer and tailored. Gold cufflinks flash in the sunlight.
And they’re all men. By the time I’ve seen a dozen figures head inside, I have a solid suspicion that whatever this place is, women aren’t allowed.
So what could Other Elodie have been doing here? And how can I find out, if she couldn’t have gone in to begin with?
I snap pics of every patron just in case something proves useful later, but most of them arrive alone, so there’s no conversation to overhear. The few men I see leaving depart the same way, straight into cars they’ve summoned.
There has to be something about this place. My doppelganger took pictures of it,andshe was asking around about one of its patrons.
I peer up at the second and third floor windows. Are they all covered too? I can’t tell from this angle.
Even if they are, I might be able to hear something through the glass. Possibly slip inside if a room seems to be empty. Would they have bothered adding protections to entry points most normal people would never consider trying to access?
I head down the alley again and survey the backs of the neighboring buildings. There’s one with a fire escape farther down.
Jackpot.
I might not be so enlightened I can levitate like a swami, but magic covers for a lot of failings. With a combination of muscular heft and concentrated ephemera, I leap high enough to grab the bottom landing of the metal structure. Then I climb the rest of the way up the drab way.
It’s another scramble to get to the roof, but easy enough to leap the gaps between the buildings with a little magical buoyancy. I crouch on the shingles over the architecture office and consider my options.
The largest third-floor window on the building of interest stands right across from a thinner one below me. That’ll do.
