“As long as Beau doesn’t sleep in again.” Lyria laughs as she ushers him out of my room.
I smile, shutting the door behind them. That odd feeling of belonging creeps around me again, but this time, I let it stay, because I know Lyria and Beau aren’t going anywhere.
A cool, crisp breeze caresses my cheek when I turn around. The smell of fresh linen envelops me, inviting me to my bed. Sleep doesn’t take long to find me, and I dream of my sister. She is radiant in a field of tulips. Her white dress billows in the wind as she spins and spins. When her eyes meet mine, her smile falters. Red splatters across her dress, and her eyes turn bloody.
I scream, but no sound comes out.
Three loud knocks jolt me awake. It takes a second to catch my bearings. Someone raps quickly against the door. “Vi,” Beau calls. Did I miss breakfast?
When I open the door, Beau wears the same haunted stare as Lyria. “Riverview Division was attacked in Gorhail Woods.”
Deathbringer believed to be dead. The Grand Master of Poison is offering a million gold coins for the safe return of Scar, the Deathbringer’s aspier.
THE DAILY MAGE, ISSUE 1939.258
thirty | sylas
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1939
The achingly sweet smell of roses made it a point to follow me through the three-day journey patrolling Gorhail Woods. Wren, our unit leader, has an awful habit of picking every rose she sees along our path because they are essential to some poison she uses to coat her daggers. To me, they are reminders of Viola.
“You’re going to be transferred to a desk job,” Gryff grunts as he stalks toward me. His white-blond hair is streaked with blood—not his, never his—and his left cheek is caked with dirt. We got into a scuffle with five poachers while responding to reports of a poacher cell in Gorhail Woods, and I was… distracted.
My first week on the Grimm task force was uneventful; Firstline has been throwing out every lead at the request of DOTS. Everyone is more afraid of propaganda than a potential copycat of the deadliest mage in history. During our downtime, Gryff and I have been digging into reports and pressing Firstline officers for information. It’s been excruciatingly slow.
“Who’s the girl anyway?” He throws me a rag soaked with alcohol.
“What girl?” I catch the rag, pressing it to my side, the cool sting a welcome feeling against the burning pain. Being on the field without Raileszais a nightmare; I don’t die, but Haal, it hurts. I cannot wait for Beau to retrieve his aspier.
“Whoever has you moping like a lovesick bird.” He stretches his arm, and Freya slithers the length of it, yawning as if she, too, is tired of my… moping.
“I am not moping,” I retort. Viola was clear about not wanting to see me, and, by Haal’s grace, so be it.
“Archyr, Darro, stop gossiping like old aunties,” Wren snaps at us. She wears her hair like the Deathbringer, long and loose in the wind. How does it not bother her in the middle of fights? A poacher could easily strangle her with all that hair. “Tonight’s our last night in Gorhail Woods. Then I’m splitting you up. Archyr, Riverview office for a week. Darro, up in Osneau.”
I roll my eyes, and Gryff gives me a pointed look. We’ve only been in the same unit for a week, and now I have to sit behind a desk while he gets to enjoy all of Osneau’s fine food. “Girls are distracting,” he mutters.
“I’ll be sure to mention that to Lyria.” I grin.
“Jokes aside, you missed twelve throws in the last week.” Gryff polishes his dagger with his shirt.
And I have five new cuts to show for it, including one the length of my left jaw that has yet to heal. “I’ve also killed as many poachers.”
Poachers have been crawling the woods in search of magical animals and plants. Four days ago, they ransacked the Northern Greenhouse, leading to DOTS pulling all Secondline units from Gorhail Woods and sending us here instead.
Gryff gives me a look.
“Sorry,” I add. He is right. My mind has been wandering the halls of Gorhail, wondering if Beau and Lyria are with Viola. Leaving her alone with Lorne circling her like a famished shark was out of the question. “It’s the stupid bond,” I mumble.
“Ah, the bond,” Gryff drawls. “Everything makes sense now.” By the way he’s trying to hide his smile, Lyria must have told him about Viola.
Raiku stirs against my wrist. At the same time, Freya slithers to Gryff’s hand, her head scanning the grounds. Around us, Firstliners straighten. Arkani get into position, manipulators with their knives and illusionists ready to weave any defense illusions we need. Mortemagi summon their undead in anticipation of any danger. Here, on the field, there is nodivision. Arkani, Mortemagi, Aspieri—we fight as one against poachers, whether we like it or not. Our survival depends on it.
“Do not attack,” Wren says. “The illusionists are shrouding us.”
Everything goes still. I can hear our breaths against the cold air, the slither of aspiers against our skin, and the single crack of a branch that lets all the demons loose.
The poachers come in threes. My eyes dart to Gryff. They are outnumbered. This should be an easy fight, so why is Wren telling us to stand down?