“I ought to kill you,” Nigel repeated. “But I won’t. Becauseshewouldn’t like it.”
Calista blinked. Then understanding seemed to fill her eyes, and she drew herself up a little straighter, a little prouder.
“No!” Nigel growled, taking a short step toward her, so that she winced away from him. “I know what you’re thinking. But no. Not Jastira. After your failure of last night, I don’t think the Shadowbane Lady would give a damn if Garden tore you limb from limb.” He drew his face close to hers, his teeth clenched, his lips rolled back in a snarl. “Your savior’s name is Luna Talbot. My shop assistant. My Sovereign Lady. The woman whom I have chosen to serve for as long as I have life and breath in me.” He stretched out his hand then, pressed his palm to her forehead. “The woman whose name you will forget from this moment on.”
The sudden influx of summoned Dire was so sharp, so powerful, it flared in the atmosphere. Calista’s eyes widened with terror, and she tried once more to scream, to struggle. But it was useless.
Nigel’s hard mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “I may not be the sorcerer I once was,” he admitted, “but neither have I forgotten everything I ever learned.”
The energy transference was profound, draining patches of Garden’s lawn all around them. But Garden wanted this done as quickly as he did, and gave of its essence to fuel the spell. It grew in strength under Nigel’s fingers, under his command.
“It will go easier for you, Calista,” he said, “if you do not resist me.”
Then he plunged into her mind, even as he had done to Lord Bruxley three days ago, and to Tobias Goddard yesterday evening. He was getting quite practiced with this whole memory-removal business, wasn’t he?
Calista’s mind was not like either Bruxley’s or Tobias’s, however. It was a mind made up of sharp, razor edges. If hewas not careful, he’d cut himself on her thoughts, her fears, her hatreds, her longings. But Nigel pressed on, deeper and deeper. He knew what it was he sought. First, he took hold of the memory of last night—their encounter on the street, their conversation, all that followed. Then he followed the strands of that memory back into farther reaches of her mind. Searching out every little piece of Calista that was associated with Garden, with Luna.
He found a memory that caught his eye particularly. In it, Calista sat at a desk, going through files, idly checking the listings of names, locations, ages, and other pertinent details. He saw her flip a file open, and there was Luna’s face—her picture, captured in black and white film, paperclipped to the top of an official-looking document. Nigel recognized what that document was: a heptagram listing. Luna had been catalogued along with the tattoo emblazoned on her wrist, and all her documentation sent back for official filing. Filing that was processed by members of thel’mauvas.
So this was how Luna was found. This was how all the careful protections her aunties had used to shelter her through the years came undone. It must have been not long after this moment that Calista’s simulacrums began stalking Tealeaf Cottage, eventually driving Luna to flee. And all because she happened to be the right age, the right look. All because shemightbe the person the Brotherhood sought.
Nigel took hold of that memory and yanked it.Hard.He felt Calista resisting, pushing back, struggling to hold on. But it was useless. Yes, she was talented. Yes, she could have been great, brilliant even, one of the best. But she chose a different path. And in the madness of her devotion to the Shadowbane Lady, she gave up everything that might have been. Which, Nigel suspected, may have been part of Jastira’s intention whenshe chose the girl to become her servant. Jastira never did like female competition. She was quite petty that way.
With a final twist and wrench, Nigel ripped the memories out, little caring for the ragged tatters left behind. Calista uttered a terrible shriek, muffled in the physical world by vines, but echoing through every corner of her mind. Her body tensed; her muscles spasmed.
Then she sagged, head hanging heavily in front of her.
Nigel stepped back, panting hard. He still held the memories, roiling with Dire Matter in his fist. He squeezed his fingers tight, crushing them in littlepoofsof anti-glitter, which disintegrated and floated away into Garden’s atmosphere.
“Let her down now,” he said.
Garden obeyed, relaxing the grip of the wisteria vine. Calista fell to her knees then collapsed to her side, lying still, her eyes open and staring into nothing. Nigel stood over her, remembering suddenly the beautiful girl she once was, collapsed at his feet in Scrying 101, struggling to breathe. He remembered how desperately he’d fought to save her, and in that memory, felt a momentary stab of compassion, despite everything.
He shook his head. “I should kill her,” he murmured.
But he wouldn’t. Because he really wasn’t that man anymore. And this fact alone might ultimately spell disaster for everything and everyone he cared about. But he couldn’t do it anyway.
Calista moaned softly, her body twitching. She would come fully conscious again soon. Nigel needed to move fast—no point in erasing those memories only for her to get an eyeful of Garden all over again. Kneeling, he pulled her arm around his shoulder, then scooped her up like a child in his arms. She was quite light, despite her tallness. Even so, he staggered a little as he carried her across the green grounds, grateful when Garden reshaped its paths to lead swiftly to the boiler room door.
Leaving behind the warmth and sunlight and fresh greenness, Nigel stepped back into the cold shop, shutting the door fast behind him. Then he carried Calista behind the counter and set her in the cane chair. She moaned softly, staring blankly at the stove. Nigel set to work at once, making a cup of tea. It was the most natural thing in the world—of course, there must be tea. There always must be tea. Not that Calista Anguish deserved it. But she would have it even so, and then he would send her on her way.
He fetched the orange llarmi, primed the pot, and even added the dibble-dab. “For luck,” he whispered. They needed all the luck they could get right now.
A short while later, he pressed a warm cup into Calista’s hands. She raised her head, blinking up at him blankly. “Where am I?” she asked in a very soft sort of voice.
“You took a wrong turn on your way home last night,” Nigel answered without answering. “Drink your tea, madame. Then we will get you back to your husband.”
She took an obedient sip. Her red lipstick was gone, and her lips were not so full as Nigel had always believed them to be. They were very pale and left no stain on the white Whittlewedge cup. She fluttered her lashes a little as tea slid down her throat, then looked into her cup with some surprise. “This is very good.”
A secret warm flush filled Nigel’s heart. It was the first sincere compliment the beauteous Calista Quick had ever paid him. “Thank you,” he said.
She blinked up at him, her eyes oddly innocent in a face which had shed all traces of innocence a very long time ago. “And who are you?” she asked sweetly.
“I am the man who is going to call you a taxi.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “Wait here.”
With that, he turned and slipped from behind the counter, murmuring to Debbie to keep an eye on their guest as he went.Then he hastened outside and flagged down an automagic cab on Pembroke Street. He bade the driver wait on the corner, then returned to the shop. Calista had finished her tea by then and was wandering up and down the aisles, looking at the flowers. Just as Nigel stepped through the door, she came upon the double-delight rose and drew back from it with some alarm. “This one looks rather vicious, doesn’t it?” she said, turning to Nigel.
“Come on.” Nigel slid an arm around her waist and took hold of her fingers with his other hand. “The cab is waiting. You need to get home and sleep, Mrs. Anguish.”
