Page 56 of The Unweaver

He watched her without answering, a subtle emotion rippling across his features.

“Don’t like answering personal questions,” she said. “Do you?”

“I will tell you. But not today.”

“That’s convenient for you.”

Shaking his head and muttering about stubborn vegetarians, he drained his teacup. “I can tell you the next step for your brother. We’ll need a specialist to lift the magic block so we can find out the curse and undo it. A Sciomancer.”

Knowledge diviners had a sixth sense for magic. Like detectives for magical signatures, they could sense what affinities a mage had, and which spells they’d performed or been victim of.

“Any Sciomancers in your gang?”

“No, but I’ll get a friend to help. Master Lazlo Lyter.”

The Tribunal—the only semblance of magical law and order—consisted of Masters deemed worthy by their rigorous standards to enact their version of justice and train apprentices. Master status was a rare distinction only one mage per affinity held the honor of at a time.

The best Sciomancer in the world might just do the trick.

“Brilliant.” Grinning, she pushed away from the table. “Let’s get started. You fetch your Sciomancer and I’ll gather whatever else we need.”

“Not yet.” He grabbed her arm as she stood. “Until I recover from this fuckin’ bullet wound, I can barely ward the house, let alone traverse with Lazlo from Budapest. The magic block and Profane curse are strong enough that we should wait for an auspicious date to crack them. The next is New Year’s Eve.”

“Aweek? This can’t wait another week! With your house full of contraband, surely we can manage without waiting that long. Teddy, or some shade of him, could return in time for—”

The house quaked. Plates and cups clattered. Gas lamps flickered. Doors slammed. Then came a loud knock on the front door, out of sight, followed by a muffled shout.

Someone had found the Realmwalker’s unfindable house.

Chapter 15. Tar

“For fuck’s sake.” The chair scraped back when Bane stood. “Wait here.”

“With bated breath,” she mumbled as he stalked out of the kitchen.

A moment later, she followed him into the entryway. He pulled a shotgun from the umbrella stand and loaded it with non-metallic bullets. Her heartbeat ratcheted up along with the insistent pounding on the door.

“Realmwalker!” boomed a gravel baritone. A heavy fist shook the door on its hinges. “Come out or I’ll burn you out!”

“Fuckin’ Verek.” Bane pumped the shotgun. “He would find my house while I’m injured.”

Fear dug its hooks into her. The house’s weakened wards would be little hindrance for the Pyromancer. Bane handed her a revolver. Bewildered, her gaze swung from the gun to him. “Can’t you traverse the house away?”

“Even if I could, bastard is on the porch. He’d come right along with us.”

Glass shattered as Verek broke through the window beside the door. He leered through the jagged hole, his eyes feverishly bright and his gold teeth glinting in a crazed smile. On his baldhead bloomed a massive bruise from where Bane had brained him during parley.

Verek was not alone. Vicious Ferromancers and Pyromancers flanked him.

“We’re here to settle a score, you damn Paddy!”

Shotgun aimed, Bane strode towards the door and fired through the broken window in a deafening boom. Glass exploded and panicked shouts erupted outside.

A fireball ignited in Verek’s palm. He lobbed it at the house’s wood shingles. Flames caught. Smoke billowed into the cold air.

“Those docks were mine! All of London was mine before you infest—” His yelling cut off with a coughing fit. “Fetch me my tonic,” he hacked out to a thug.

Even with his thunderous scowl, Verek looked haggard. Shoulders slouched and handlebar mustache drooping, he seemed on the verge of collapse from fatigue. He tossed back the tonic vial handed to him and his posture relaxed, his eyelids sagging.

---