one side and spoke quietly into a two-way radio.
“Rather tight security for a place that supposedly supports and promotes illusionists,” I murmured.
“Oh, I think it’s safe to say it’s more than that. How much more, of course, is a question we’ve never been able to answer.”
“If there’s doubts over their legitimacy, why has no one investigated?”
“One needs a reason to investigate, and they’ve never provided one.”
“So they’re cagey.”
“Extremely.”
The guard stepped back in front of us and swept a card across the reader. “Okay, you’ve been cleared to enter. Miss Jennings will be waiting for you in the second-floor foyer. The stairs are to your right, and the elevator directly ahead.”
“Thank you,” Ashworth said, then motioned me to precede him.
We headed right, our footsteps echoing hollowly on the crisp white marble. There were a number of comfortable-looking chairs dotted about, but otherwise the foyer was boringly pristine. Just beyond the small bank of elevators was a wall of blue-tinged glass bricks that gave no hint as to what might lie beyond them. They gleamed under the bright lights above but lent no warmth to the overall feel of the place. Stark sterility certainly wasn’t what I’d expected from an organization representing illusionists.
We bounded up the wide steps and quickly reached the second floor. A tall, thin woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties waited in the middle of the foyer, her hands folded in front of her and her expression somewhat bored. Her crisp white shirt, black skirt, and sensible black shoes might have been old-fashioned but her hair certainly wasn’t. It was short, spikey, and a startling blue in color—the same blue as her eyes, in fact.
She held out a ring-lined hand. “Marian Jennings, at your service.”
Ashworth shook her hand and then introduced me. Marion’s grip was cool and efficient. Much like the woman, I suspected.
“This way, please.” She turned and led us past the elevators and through a security door. “We’ve done a quick search for the mark you described and found several active possibilities.”
“Meaning there were also inactive possibilities?” I asked.
She glanced briefly over her shoulder, her expression giving little away. “Yes. I’m not sure how much you know about the marks—”
“The reservation recently dealt with a heretic witch and his apprentice,” Ashworth said.
“Ah.” One word that seemed to speak volumes. “Then you’re well aware that it’s rare for dark witches to take on an apprentice and mark them in such a manner.”
“If you’ve got a library filled with records of said marks, I’m thinking that’s not quite true.” We followed her through a second security door and into what appeared to be a reading area.
The look she cast me was somewhat disdainful. “Our collection is centuries old, young woman, and a maker’s mark can be handed from master to apprentice through multiple generations. We have recorded all such events, hence the number of volumes in the library.”
“Handed down” was something of a misnomer, given the only reason many dark masters took on an apprentice was to steal their bodies—ousting the apprentices’ souls and replacing them with his own—once they were approaching their own mortality.
But it was interesting that the society was able to catalogue such exchanges, especially given how secretive dark witches generally were. It was undoubtedly another reminder that the society was far more than what they claimed on all the advertising.
We walked down a short corridor into the library, which was a lot smaller than I’d expected. Shelving units lined the three walls, with a nest of tall tables in the middle. There were no chairs. Obviously, you were not meant to get comfortable in this room.
The nearest table held three books and three sets of gloves. Marion motioned toward them. “Please.”
We dutifully donned the gloves and then moved to the first book. Several paper bookmarks stuck out at the top of it. Marian carefully opened the book at the first tab. The first mark she showed us was more a moon than a scythe, though a snake was very definitely wrapped around it. I shook my head, and she carefully folded over the ancient-smelling pages to the next tab. This time it was a scythe, but there was no snake, just a rope that rather weirdly ended in a noose. And if that hadn’t warned the apprentice of his ultimate fate, I’m not sure what would have. The third one in this book was another scythe, but I had no idea what was wrapped around it. It certainly wasn’t a snake.
I shook my