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I followed the tenuous trail out of the bedroom, stepping over chunks of marble and concrete, trying not to breathe in too much of the dust and smoke. My throat burned, and I needed water badly, but there was no way I’d leave this place until I found whatever that slight tease of magic was.
The trail led into the small laundry, of all places. I paused, looking around, trying to pinpoint the sliver of darkness. After a moment, I moved to the cupboard near the washer/dryer. When I opened the door, a laundry hamper slid out, half-filled with shirts, undies, and socks. Somewhat reluctantly, wishing I had some gloves so I didn’t have to touch used undies with bare hands, I fished around. My fingertips soon brushed something solid near the bottom. I caught it and pulled it out.
“As dark magic goes, that pair of trousers looks particularly unthreatening,” Azriel commented.
“Don’t they just.” They also felt rather heavy. I explored each of the pockets and, from the last one, pulled out a phone. Its surface crawled with the dark sensation of magic. I handed it to Azriel, then tossed the pants back into the hamper. “Can you feel it?”
He nodded and turned the vid-phone over, studying it. “I do not believe it is spelled, as such. It simply feels as if magic has leached into its surface.”
“Can magic leach into surfaces?” I barely managed to get the words out when I started coughing again. The smoke was getting thicker, the heat stronger, and the emergency response vehicles had stopped on the street outside. We had to get out of here.
He shrugged. “I am not familiar enough with magic to answer that question, but the Brindle witches might be able to.”
They probably could, but I’d already jeopardized their safety enough. I wasn’t about to take this phone to them and risk either setting off a spell we couldn’t detect or bringing the wrath of the sorceress down on them.
“Then what do you wish to do?” Azriel said. “As you noted, we must get out of here.”
“Let’s go to the Directorate,” I said. “Maybe Uncle Rhoan—or at least someone in the Directorate—will be able to break whatever security is on the phone and trace who it belongs to.”
He raised his eyebrows even as he reached for me. “And if there is a spell?”
“They have more than enough witches and plenty of spell-nullifying rooms to cope with it.” I shoved my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around my phone again.
“Good plan,” he said, and zipped us out of there.
“I do have them occasionally,” I said, as we reappeared in front of the inconspicuous green-glass building that housed the Directorate.
“Apparently so.” His voice was dry.
I ignored the comment and, after tugging my clothes into some semblance of order, fished my phone out of my pocket and walked toward the Directorate’s main entrance.
“Call Rhoan,” I said, and a heartbeat later, his image appeared on the vid-screen.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to me,” he said, a smile touching his lips but little in the way of amusement in his eyes.
“I need to talk to you ASAP.”
“Don’t bother, because I have no intention—”
“It’s not about that,” I cut in, not wanting him to say too much in case it wasn’t Markel astrally following us about. The Cazadors generally weren’t able to track our movements through the gray fields, but they would have heard me mentioning going to the Directorate and might already be here. Traveling on the astral field was as simple and as easy as traveling via reaper. “Well, not entirely. I need your help.”
“Where are you?”
“Just about to enter the Directorate foyer.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
The screen went dead. I shoved my phone away and stepped through the Directorate’s main entrance. Pale blue light swept my length as I did so, the only visible indication of the vast array of scanners installed in this place. They all had one purpose—to protect those within. Not even a gnat could get into the Directorate without security being aware of it, let alone anyone armed with some form of weapon—be it metal, plastic, or laser. Of course, there wasn’t a sensor in the world capable of detecting the presence of our swords.
Naturally, Amaya commented, her mental tones haughty. Superior we are.
A point with which I couldn’t disagree. Even so, I couldn’t help saying, At least the weapons of this world don’t scream at inopportune moments.
Problems theirs, she said. No point in not screaming. It scares more than steel.
I guessed that was another point I couldn’t argue with. I walked over to the comfy chairs situated to one side of the foyer and sat, legs crossed, to wait for Uncle Rhoan.
Security frowned at us. “Can I help you, miss?”
