Page 91 of Magic for Nothing

“Am I dead?”

“Not yet. Can you walk?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. I’m going to get you to your feet. Can you focus enough to go human? You weigh less without all the extra muscle mass.” Sam’s speed had saved my life, and his fūri bone density had saved his. That didn’t mean I could carry a six-foot-tall monkey-man who wasn’t in a position to help me. There are limits.

“I can try.” Sam closed his eyes again, grimacing. Slowly, his simian features melted away, replaced by the frowning man who’d met me on my first day in the bone yard. Without the fur to blunt the edges of the wound, the trench the bullet had dug into his forehead was substantially more brutal-looking. If he’d been human when Robert had pulled the trigger . . .

Five minutes ago I’d been asking myself whether I could kill another human being. Now I found myself wishing I could bring him back to life so I could kill him again for what he’d almost done.

Gingerly, I worked my arm under Sam’s shoulders and half-helped, half-pulled him to his feet. The heat from the burning ceiling was becoming increasingly apparent, although chunks of canvas had not yet started falling on us. That was coming. Once the fire traveled down the tent walls and began really getting to work, everything was going to collapse in on itself.

Sam held on as best as he could, head lolling and eyes still closed as I steered him toward the door. I only looked back once, in time to see the burning web of the trapeze break apart and fall onto the net. The heart of the carnival was dying. The rest would follow. I’d done this; it was on me. I turned away. I needed to focus on getting myself out, and on keeping Sam alive. If I could do those things, someday I might be able to forgive myself.

We stepped through the tent flap, into the cool, clean air of the Minnesota night. I froze, bringing Sam stumbling to a stop.

“What?” he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“Problem,” I said.

Margaret Healy, who was holding a pistol in her hands and had a vicious bruise stretching across her throat, sneered.

Twenty-four

“Happy endings are for fairy tales. Try to focus on the ending that comes with the chance to start again.”

—Enid Baker

The midway of the Spenser and Smith Family Carnival, in the midst of an unwanted family reunion

“LOOK,” I SAID. “Can’t we talk about this?”

Margaret’s sneer grew. “I should have known,” she said. “You were too bloody perfect, and you were so eager. You wanted to help. I trusted you. I thought you were going to be one of us. Should have known you were a liar and a thief and a traitor born. Did they send you to punish me?”

I blinked. “Okay, you lost me.” Sam was a heavy weight on my shoulder, eyes still closed, not moving. He hadn’t spoken since he’d asked why we’d stopped. I knew he was conscious—he hadn’t reverted to his fūri form—but he wasn’t up for doing much beyond keeping himself awake. If I dropped him, that might distract Margaret for a moment. Not long enough. In a fight between gun and knife, the person with the gun already out and ready to fire is always, always going to win.

“Your bastard branch of the family,” snarled Margaret. “Did they send you to punish me for not being one of them? For being loyal and committed and willing to do what’s required to serve my species? You’re the ones who lost your way, not me, but I’m the one who has to live with the consequences of your actions. So answer me. Did they send you as a test?”

I gaped at her, preparing to say something about how none of this had been personal. I stopped myself. The things she was saying, the way she was saying them . . . I’d heard them before. It was just that they’d always come from my own lips, and been directed at my sister. Verity, who did whatever the hell she wanted and left the rest of us to clean up her mess. Verity, the golden child.

Verity, who’d never been trying to hurt me, any more than I’d been trying to hurt Margaret. Choices had consequences, and yes, sometimes those consequences could get other people hurt, but that didn’t make them personal. That didn’t make them intentional. It just made them something else that had to be resolved.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Margaret flinched. “What did you say to me?”

“I said, I’m sorry. I’m sorry my great-great-grandparents had to leave their children when they left the Covenant; I’m sorry you grew up thinking you came from a family of traitors when really, you come from a family of impassioned, intelligent people trying to do the best they can. I’m sorry we abandoned you. I’m sorry we’re never going to be a family in anything more than blood.” The gulf between us was too great. I wasn’t going to come around to her way of thinking, and she certainly wasn’t going to come around to mine.

“You’re trying to trick me,” snarled Margaret, and steadied her aim. I realized, with a sick, sinking feeling that she wasn’t aiming at me anymore. If she pulled the trigger, the bullet was going to go right through Sam’s heart. Even shifting back to his natural form wouldn’t save him from that. “I’ll make you a deal, cousin. Come with me willingly, so we can learn everything you know, and I won’t shoot your boyfriend dead in front of you.”

“But you’ll shoot him later,” I said wearily.

“He’s not human. He’s a threat. He has to die.”

“I’m not going to surrender.”

“Then you’re going to hold him while he dies, and I’m going to take you anyway.” Her lips drew back from her teeth in a noiseless snarl. “You pretended to be my friend. Well, you’re going to be my redemption. You’re going to—”