“What?”
Fabian swallowed. His halfway enchanted face looked haunted in the light pouring from the large, glass hotel doors. “The Brotherhood haven’t been idle. Ever since Jastira’s fall, they’ve been on the hunt for a worthy host body. I believe . . .” He licked his lips, glancing around nervously. “They don’t tell me much, you know. I’m not one ofthem,not officially. Maybe if I can come through, if I can get them Garden, then . . . but never mind that. The important thing is, they believe they’ve found the last living female descendent of the Thorpewillow line. They haven’t got her yet, but all their resources are trained on tracking her down. It’s just a matter of time until . . .”
Nigel stared at his brother. He felt something in his brain trying to click into place. Something that didn’t want to click. Something that part of him was activelynotallowingto click.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“I’m desperate.”
“You’re a power-hungry lunatic.”
“You got all the fame and glory, Nigel. What was I left with? Crumbs. Always your crumbs.” Fabian grimaced. “I’ll have my day, you know.”
“You won’t have Garden.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Fabian made a move then. Not a terrible move, not entirely without skill. Had he made such a move on a student, it mighthave worked. Or on a non-practicing, academic sort of sorcerer, one who knew the theory but did not actually perform magic. He might have even pulled it off against certain members of the Brotherhood.
But when he summoned up a handful of Dire Matter and hurled it straight at Nigel’s face, Nigel caught it as easily as a cricket ball, turned it around, and sent it back at his brother.
It struck—a mere glancing blow. Nigel had enough wherewithal not to repeat the Lancelot Mortimer debacle. Still, the force was strong enough to knock Fabian into a perfect pirouette before he collapsed in a pile of half-enchanted limbs. Right there on the steps of The King’s Crown Hotel.
Nigel looked back and forth. It was so cold, all the doormen were inside, not standing out in the freezing air. No sudden shouts of surprise or alarms erupted through the snow-bound night. It would seem no one had actually seen the brief altercation. As for the energy transfer, Fabian seemed to have sourced from his own life-force, as all amateur sorcerers did. Which meant no telltale evidence left behind.
Stepping to Fabian’s side, Nigel knelt and hastily murmured a levitation spell. Anti-glitter accumulated under his brother, raising him a few inches off the ground. Nigel took hold of his hands and pulled him hurriedly along, dragging him through the air around the building and into the covered parking lot. There, Nigel waved the anti-glitter away. Fabian landed hard, but Nigel spared him no sympathy. He’d not even bothered to declare an official challenge before he hurtled that spell. He deserved whatever he got.
But what was Nigel supposed to do with him now?
He looked this way and that. Rows of powered-down automagic mobiles met his gaze. No one else. Nothing else. All was very quiet and still.
First removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket, Nigel reached into the front of his suit coat and withdrew the folded handkerchief. “Good thing you came prepared,” he murmured.
Unfolding the fabric to reveal the seven drops of distilled Dire Matter, he walked in a circle around his brother, squeezing out each drop at even intervals until Fabian was entirely surrounded. As he went, he muttered the words of a dark incantation. Words of a dead and damned language, spoken only by those corrupt souls willing to risk all for power, for glory. Or, in this case, for the swift removal of a troublesome sibling.
Nigel stepped back. The air above the circle and his brother’s unconscious body went a little dark and wibbly-wobbly. “I summon thee,” Nigel intoned, holding out both hands in sinister configurations. “Heed my voice, O Creature of the Dire. Heed thy Master and appear before mine eyes!”
A form manifested, emerging from the aether of otherrealms. A being not of this world, but of the Dire Dimensions. Black as ink, black as sin. The size of a carthorse, with huge yellow eyes, and fangs like razor-edged swords, and . . . and . . .
Nigel blinked. “Gronk Cat?” he whispered.
“Meow,” said the massive demonic entity.
Nigel swallowed. Strains ofThe Gronk Cat Boogie, heard far too many times that season, appeared in his head. Hastily, he cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and assumed the voice of sorcerous authority with which he had summoned and compelled countless dark spirits in his day. “Gronk Cat,” he said. It was always best to use a spirit’s name when issuing a command; it solidified control. “Gronk Cat, this . . . this boy has failed to hang holly above his door.”
The black spirit turned its lantern eyes down at Fabian. It began to growl softly. The tip of its tail twitched.
“I charge you, Gronk Cat,” Nigel continued, “to bear him away to . . . to . . .” He cast about for inspiration. “To the Phrigidos Isles. There to suffer punishment for . . . lack of festivity.”
Gronk Cat lifted his enormous head. Then, with a deft paw, it rolled Fabian over and picked him up by the back of his coat like a scruffed kitten. He looked at Nigel again, a solemn contemplation.
“Begone,” Nigel said.
Gronk Cat blinked. Expectantly.
“Away with you.”
Gronk Cat tilted his head.
