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I straighten up and take a step back. “Lawyer. And you’re right. We shouldn’t blur the boundaries.”
“Right you are then, Miss Elner.”
“You can call me Kate,” I say, allowing myself one little grin before I force my expression back to its most serious.
I’m about to launch into my usual spiel about the need for him to be as open and honest with me as he can—without actually incriminating himself—when I notice his handcuffs.
They’d vaguely caught my eye when I’d first entered the room. It’s a little unorthodox to keep someone cuffed for a conference with their lawyer, but not out of the realms of possibility in a high security place like this. What I hadn’t previously noticed is that they’re gold and engraved with swirling symbols.
I reach out and touch the left cuff and flinch at the coldness of the metal and the sense, even in that split second before I pull my arm back, of something being pulled from me.
“They’ve got you in blockers? What the hell? How did this happen? Are you in those all the time? This is a breach of your human rights.”
Or it surely would be, if those who’d come up with the concept and the legislation knew about practitioners. The point of blockers is to stop the person wearing them from doing magic. But they don’t just stop the magic from flying out of you as spells and influence. It’s more like they stop it from flowing into you in the first place, stop you even sensing it in the air and the earth. It’s less like putting someone in handcuffs, more like putting them in a portable sensory deprivation chamber.
I’ve seen my father—and Brendan himself, to be fair—use them in extremis, when an ally needs to calm themselves before they do something stupid, or an enemy refuses to stay down. But just until the situation is under control, not for extended periods of time.
“Apparently, it’s standard practice for imprisoned practitioners. They don’t catch one of us very often, but when they do, there’s ancient procedure in place about what to do. Only a handful of seniors in the prison system know about magic and how to deal with it, but the practicalities get filtered down to the guards on the ground—who just believe I’m a particularly dangerous human prisoner.
“I tried to fight back when they arrested me, but I was weakened. I didn’t manage to gain a foothold before they got these on, and then I was essentially helpless.”
“That’s what the family told me. But what on earth weakenedyouenough that some human police officers could overpower you before you could just wipe their memories or influence them or something?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. It all ties in with my alibi.”
I frown. That sounds like some story. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that though you might need to push and probe a client, you ultimately need to go at their pace.
I lean over and place a hand lightly on his chest. “If your magic’s blocked, take some of mine. There’s enough to go round, and it’s not like I use it much.”
“Thanks, Sadie. I mean, Kate. It’s like water for a dying man.”
Normally, when you share magic with a fellow practitioner, they sort of suck it in through their skin. At least, based on things I’ve seen and the one time I experienced it myself from the other side. But with Brendan’s own magic blocked, I basically have to pump it into him. I don’t share too much, as he can’t do anything with it while he’s wearing the cuffs. It’s like a blood donation when you need a heart transplant.
Sharing magic with someone creates a special kind of bond. Usually, you’d be a bit more ritualistic and reverent than this, but as brother and sister, we’ve already got bonds of blood. Sharing magic also reduces the power of the giver and proportionately increases the power of the receiver, but at these low volumes and with our respective powers similar in strength and style, the difference should be negligible.
I give it two minutes, timed precisely by my watch, then step back. I’ve not given him much, but the exchange is still enough to give me a headache and a desperate desire for a coffee. I really do need to snap into lawyer mode sooner rather than later. I sit down on the hard, uncomfortable chair on the opposite side of the table.
“Okay, back to the trial. First things first, the more honest you are with me, the more likely it is I can help you. I can’t operate at my best if I get surprises flung in my face.”
Brendan nods. “I know, I know. Ask the question.”
“Did you kill Niall Thornber?”
“No.” His eyes are open and honest.
“Did you hurt him?”
“No.” His breathing and his voice are perfectly steady.
I breathe a little sigh of relief. It’s bad not to have had faith in my brother, but he’s never been the calmest of people. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that he could have killed Niall, whether in a flash of anger, in self-defence, as a show of power, or just as part of a plan that went wrong.
Of course, despite his convincing tone and body language, he could be lying. With Brendan’s power blocked and mine buzzing in excitement at the thought of being home, I could check. But we never probe each other’s minds. It’s one of the first rules of the family. Something you just don’t do, regardless of the provocation. And call me naïve, but I trust him.
For the last six years, though I’ve missed Bren, I’ve also—fairly or unfairly—resented him for the way his actions ended up with Gabriel marking me. Now though, face to face with him for the first time in far too long, a wild montage of scenes from our childhood and teens cascade through my brain. He’d always taken care of me, always let me tag along with his games and his friends, never just dismissing me as an annoying little sister. He’d helped me practise my magic, never pushing or patronising, but striking just the right balance. He’d let me sit and watch him draw and paint. Sometimes, he’d sketch me—pretty portraits, funny little cartoons and caricatures and everything in between. He’d tried to teach me to draw, though had given up once it became clear I had zero ability for art, with or without magic. After which, he’d settled for letting me talk to him about books and history, and told me stories about the Old Ways and about Mannith in centuries gone by.
Of course I trust him. Of course I’ll do anything I can to get him out.
“So, who did kill him then?” I say.
