“If he touches you,” Baz murmurs, “I’m eviscerating him.”
Smith-Richards stops at our row. He’s even better looking this close. High cheekbones, square chin. He looks like a Burberry model. “It’s such an honour to have you here,” he says. He looks around, and everyone starts clapping, like they agree with him.
I smile tightly, sort of nodding at the rest of the room. If there’s one thing I can thank the Mage for, it’s that he never sent me out on dog and pony shows. Most of these magicians have never seen me in person before.
“We all owe you such a debt,” Smith-Richards says gravely, “for serving the World of Mages to the best of your ability.”
That seems like an insult, but I smile anyway and mutter, “Yeah, thanks, mate.”
“Is this your first meeting?” he asks. “Is there anything I can tell you about myself and our work?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m good. Just came to check it out. Go ahead and, um, carry on. Thanks.”
“If you have any questions, please ask. We’re all happy to talk.” He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s embarrassed about something. The curls pop through his fingers one by one. “I’m glad you cametonight,” he says, looking out at the room again, “because this is a special night.”
A few people clap, but most of them just seem to be holding their breath, like he’s about to start giving out cars or something.
Smith-Richards walks back up the aisle. “Tonight we’re going to help another mage live up to their potential.” He’s looking from side to side, smiling. “So many of you have waited for so long . . .” He stops next to Daphne, and takes her hand. “And been so loyal.”
Baz takes a deep breath. He’s slid his wand from his sleeve into his palm.
Daphne’s looking up at Smith-Richards like he’s some sort of angel. He squeezes her hand and lets go, stepping back onto the stage.
He smiles out at the audience—you could hear a pin drop—and slowly reaches out his hand. “Alan.”
An older man stands up, whooping. Everyone around him laughs. Some people clap come more.
Smith-Richards waves him up. “Come on, Alan! Come on up!”
Alan walks to the front of the room, people patting him on the back as he goes. He climbs up onto the stage.
“You’ve waited so long for this,” Smith-Richards says, then points the microphone at Alan.
“I have at that,” Alan says, chuckling. “I didn’t realize I was waiting for you, Smith. But I was—I was.”
“Well, let’s not make you wait anymore,” Smith-Richards says. “Let’s give you the life you’ve deserved all along!”
He puts the microphone on its stand and pulls a wand out of his back pocket. He holds his other hand out to Alan.
I lean into Baz and whisper, “What should we do?”
“I don’t know,” Baz says. “I don’t think we can stop him . . .”
“We could stop him if wehadto,” I counter.
“Whatever spell he cast didn’t kill Beth. It probably won’t kill Alan either.”
Everyone around us is leaning forward, eyes wide. (No one is gawking at me at the moment or checking out Baz.)
“Let it all out!”Smith-Richards casts.
There’s no noise, no sparks. I don’t know why I was expecting some; magic doesn’t work that way. Smith-Richards shuffles back a bit away from Alan, like the spell took great effort.
Alan looks up at him.
“Go on,” Smith-Richards says softly, reaching for the microphone again, “get out your wand.”
“It’s a fountain pen,” Alan says.
