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“We did what we had to do, whether you choose to believe that or not,” I told him.
“We all do,” Richardson commented mildly, offering his hand.
This conversation wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped, but at least we were talking. It was a start.
His hand was warm and slightly damp and his grip was firm—a little too firm. His fingers tightened as he drew me close, bending his head as if to say something privately. But all I heard was a low-voiced incantation that sent a sharp frisson running over my skin.
“Nick was my son,” he said gently.
I stared up at him, seeing the resemblance that should have registered before—the auburn hair, darker than Nick’s carrottop but with the same natural wave, and the eyes, surprisingly translucent when the light was right and dark as sapphire at the rim. And the expression, which told me as clearly as if he’d screamed it that talk wasn’t what he’d come to do.
Francoise muttered a spell, but before she could finish, Richardson flung out a hand and she went flying. Two of Casanova’s security team started forward, but the mages flanking us threw up a shield that they couldn’t penetrate. That wouldn’t last, but then, it didn’t have to. Richardson reached out and, with a savage motion, ripped open the air.
The darkness of the casino’s lobby was suddenly brilliant with icy blue light that highlighted the patched areas in the carpet and the hidden speakers in the corners. It made Richardson’s eyes brighter and colder even than they were while washing all human color from his face. I tried to shift but nothing happened. I pulled back, but his grip had turned to steel.
“We need each other,” I reminded him. “You don’t want to do this!”
His face took on an expression that was nothing like a smile. “Oh, but I really think I do.”
A movement caught my eye and I looked up in time to see Pritkin jumping down from the second-floor balcony. But it was too late. Richardson jerked me to him, an arm encircled my waist and we were gone.
I knew what had happened as soon as I saw the familiar tunnel of leaping energy all around us, although the sensation in my stomach—rising, sinking, a bit like flying, only far more terrifying—would have been enough. We were skimming the surface of a ley line, a term the mages used for the rivers of power generated when worlds collide: ours, the demon realms, Faerie or any of a hundred others.
For the width of a couple of football fields on either side was a sea of glimmering blue, a thousand shades from robin’s egg to sapphire running together like an electric ocean. In front and behind, energy sparkled and danced along gleaming bands of pure power, telescoping out to an infinite vanishing point. It wasn’t a calm picture: everywhere knots and snarls of blue-tinged lightning were tossed up like flotsam or, as someone had once explained it to me, magma in a tectonic drift.
The mages had long ago learned how to skim along the surface of these metaphysical hot spots, surfing their currents to rapidly travel from one point to another. The lines didn’t go everywhere, which was one reason trains, planes and automobiles were still in use by the magical set. Another was the fact that most people didn’t have shields strong enough to navigate this otherworldy highway system. Without them, the energy of a ley line would turn a human into dust in seconds.
“Shift, damn it!” Pritkin’s voice echoed in my ear, the connection staticky and weak.
Yeah. Like that never would have occurred to me. I glared at the passing stream of vivid color and wished I could yell back. But if Richardson learned we could communicate, he’d probably figure out some way to block it. The only way to retain my tenuous connection with Pritkin was to keep my mouth shut.
“Cassie! Can you hear me?”
I realized that I had to say something. He couldn’t help me if he didn’t know what was wrong. “Why can’t I shift?” I asked Richardson.
“You can’t shift?” Pritkin repeated. His voice was wavering in and out, like a badly tuned radio, and I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.
“Because it doesn’t make sense that I can’t shift,” I repeated as loudly as I dared. “And don’t tell me you used a null bomb, because then your shields wouldn’t work. We’d both be dead by now.”
“I used a null net,” Richardson said, strangely matter-of-fact. He sounded like we were having the conversation over lunch instead of hurtling down a magical river that was trying its best to consume us. “The power you’ve usurped won’t help you.”
“A null net?” I prompted, hoping someone would take the hint. It was a little hard to fight something I’d never even heard of.
To my surprise, Richardson filled me in. “A bomb is designed to project the null effect outward—to stop a battle, for instance. A net does the opposite, projecting the power inward, over a more limited surface—in this case, your body.” He sounded pretty pleased with himself; I assumed the net had been his idea. “It blocks your ability to access your magic but does not interfere with that of anyone around you.”
Pritkin used one of his favorite swear words, so I knew Richardson wasn’t lying. “Are you still on the Chaco Canyon Line?” Pritkin demanded, like I’d know. I’d experienced the part thrill, part terror of ley line travel only recently, since most vampires don’t find rivers of fire a fun way to get around. Tony had never used them, and as a result I wasn’t up on all the ins and outs. I knew that different worlds intersecting created different colors, due to variations in the atmospheres, but I hadn’t even begun to know which color went where.
I wouldn’t have had a chance to answer anyway, because a burst of power exploded right in front of us like a solar flare. The arm around my waist tightened convulsively, almost cutting off my air, as we spun out of control. The centrifugal forces were greater at the borders of the lines, where thick bands of power helped to push mages out of their version of a subway. Only we weren’t leaving. My captor merely used the opportunity to regain control before we were back in the midst of the stream.
“All this blue is blinding,” I said breathlessly. “I don’t know how you can see to navigate.”
“He’s taking you to MAGIC,” Pritkin confirmed.
“Yes, we’re on the Chaco Canyon Line, on our way to MAGIC, where she will stand trial for her crimes. Is there anything else you’d like to know, John?” Richardson asked politely.
“He can’t hear us,” Pritkin informed me quickly. “He’s guessing based on your comments. They weren’t exactly subtle.”
Well, excuse the hell out of me, I didn’t say.
