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But Mira had a bigger problem to face: Because the residue was connected to her own magic, she couldn’t extract it. Unless she found a way to separate them.

One step forward, ten steps back. She was so angry she could practically taste it. Flipping her coin, she traveled back to her room. Her scar itched as if it was laughing at her. You’re never getting rid of me. She let out a scream of frustration and pushed all the items off her desk.

Loose papers rained down as she tried to compose herself. Failure is progress, Rylan had said. She knelt and collected the Buckley file, which she knew forward and backward by now. The page with his address sat on top, and Mira had an idea.

Instead of waiting for Obryn’s next order, she could be proactive. The Highmage and Dawson always kept secrets from her. It was time she took matters into her own hands. The two Wielders had never bothered to check out the crime scene for spent magic residue.

Obryn wouldn’t let her out of the bargain until the murders were solved, and she still needed his help with her scar removal.

She had to find a way to end this grotesque arrangement between her and Dawson. Then he could go back to being a cold enigma and she could focus on her scar removal.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself as she flipped the coin, thinking of the Buckley house.

11

The wooden planks creaked under her feet as she stepped into Buckley’s small home. It had taken only a simple unlocking spell for her to break into the house, which was located in a run-down part of Osterbury.

A coat was draped over the railing of the staircase. Several pairs of worn shoes sat by the entrance. The air smelled of stale cooking oil and old clothes.

Mira hit the light switch since this clearly wasn’t a house of magic construction, but the electricity must have been shut off because nothing happened. She connected with her White Magic and pooled just enough of it in her palm to illuminate her way up the stairs.

The runner rug was so worn down in the middle, it had lost its bright red and yellow markings. Gingerly, she walked up and entered the bedroom where Buckley was found. The bed wasn’t made. Pillows carelessly tossed to the side.

It was quiet except for the occasional barking of a dog outside and the footsteps of people walking by. All of her anxiety from earlier was washed away as she focused on the task at hand. Adrenaline was a great way to avoid having to think about her own problems.

She looked through Buckley’s closet and his desk, but by all accounts, he had been living a very simple life. He didn’t seem to be someone an elaborate poison would be invented for. Whoever wanted Buckley and the other Wielders dead could have done it a million different ways without causing suspicion.

Her trace spell for the poison ingredients lit up next to his bed, where he was killed. She cast a more elaborate spell and found traces of another substance on the floor. Taking a vial, she scooped some up of the material and sealed the lid. It could give her some insight as to who was behind these murders.

A picture of a younger Buckley and what she assumed to be his family hung on the wall. There, in the reflection of the glass, she saw it. A figure behind her. She stilled, hoping she was imagining things. But her eyes didn’t play tricks on her. A man in black clothing stood in the doorframe.

Mira’s blood ran cold. She pulled her coin from her pocket and flipped it, but nothing happened. Why were there shields against coin travel around Buckley’s place? She had no time to contemplate this because the figure behind her lifted his hand. She jumped out of the way, narrowly escaping the spell that collided with the bookshelf. It exploded, sending pieces of wood flying.

Mira cast a shield that glowed around her like a glass bubble.

During the war she always carried explosive potions, but she had nothing on her now, so she ran, escaping the next blast, and hid under the bed. It had been years since she had used defensive spells, and aside from a simple shield, the others took a lot more control and concentration.

Mira closed her eyes, trying to connect with the thread of a mirror spell, which would be able to ricochet the dark spells back at the Wielder, but at that moment the whole bed lifted into the air. With another move of his fingers, the Wielder’s powers threw the bed against the wall.

The wood exploded with a loud bang, and Mira ran behind the closet. Mid-run a spell shattered her shield and the glowing light around her disappeared.

Panicked, she reached for a broken piece of wood, the only weapon she could think of. She commanded her White Magic, and this time it listened, letting her access the mirror spell. Silver swirls formed around her hands but they grew too slowly, not covering enough of her body. That’s when Dark Magic cut through the flesh of her shoulder. Her knees buckled under the searing pain, and she fell to the ground.

The mirror spell disappeared as hot blood poured down her arm, but she raised it anyway.

She cast a shackling spell and it landed on the Wielder, tying his wrists and ankles with a band of white light, disabling his ability to cast spells.

She was about to run when three more men, clad in black uniforms, entered the room, arms outstretched and their Shadowflames flaring.

They cast spells in quick succession. She created another shield and it lit up in bright white light, but with each dark spell it weakened. The weight of it settled on her shoulders and in her legs. She escaped another blast and threw a shackling spell, but the Wielder sidestepped it. With the next spell, her shield came crashing down.

Before she could cast another, the Wielder in the middle smiled and lifted his arm. But his spell never came. Instead, his hand went to his throat as he gasped for air. The others stared at him in horror and then black shards, sparkling they were so sharp, cut through his throat and he dropped to the floor.

A large figure with dragon-like eyes emerged from the shadows.

Dawson.

The remaining Wielders turned around and sent spells at him at rapid speed. He sidestepped them with ease. She had never seen him fight, and it was almost magnetic to watch, had it not been for how incredibly effortlessly he used dark spells. His face remained stoic as if he wore a mask. Cold determination. It was three against one, yet it seemed Dawson had an unfair advantage.