kinds of interesting magic.
“It’s not just the vessel,” Dawes explained to Alex and Turner the next day, standing at the counter in the kitchen at Il Bastone, a golden teapot and jeweled strainer before her. “It’s the tea itself.” She carefully measured out dried leaves from a tin stamped with the St. Elmo’s crest, a sinister little design referred to as “the goat and boat.”
“Darlington said they’re campaigning for a new tomb,” Alex said.
Dawes nodded. “Losing Rosenfeld Hall broke them. They’ve been petitioning for years, claiming all sorts of new applications for their magic. But without a nexus to build over, there’s no point to a new tomb.” She poured the water over the leaves and set the timer on her phone. The lights flickered. “Make the brew too strong and you could short the grid for the entire Eastern Seaboard.”
“Why are the tombs so important?” Turner asked. “This is just a house and you’re standing there … working magic.” He ran his tongue over his teeth as if he didn’t like the taste of the word.
“Lethe House magic is spell-and object-based, borrowed enchantments, very stable. We don’t rely on rites. It’s why we can keep the wards up. The other societies are trafficking with far more powerful forces—telling the future, communicating with the dead, altering matter.”
“Big magic,” said Alex.
Turner leaned back against the counter. “So they have machine guns and you’re working with a bow and arrow?”
Dawes looked up, startled. She rubbed her nose. “Well, more like a crossbow, but yes.”
The timer sounded. Dawes swiftly removed the strainer and poured the tea into a thermos. She handed it to Alex. “You should have about two hours of real disruption. After that …” She shrugged.
“But you’re not going to knock the power out, right?” Turner asked. “I don’t want to be at a jail when all the lights go down.”
“Aw, look how far you’ve come!” Alex said. “Now you’re worried about magic being too powerful.”
Dawes tugged at her sweatshirt sleeves, the surety she’d displayed while caught up in brewing the tea evaporating. “Not if I got it right.”
Alex took the thermos and stowed it in her satchel, then yanked her hair into a tight bun. She’d told Mercy she had a job interview as an excuse to borrow her fancy black pantsuit.
“I hope you get the job,” Mercy had said, and hugged Alex so tight it felt like her bones were bending.
“I hope I get it too,” Alex had replied. She’d been happy to play dress-up, happy to have this adventure to fill the hours, regardless of the danger. The new-moon rite had felt distant, impossibly far off, but tonight it would happen. She was having trouble thinking about anything else.
She checked her phone. “No signal.”
Turner did the same. “Me neither.”
Alex turned on the little television that sat above the breakfast nook. Nothing but static. “A perfect brew, Dawes.”
Dawes looked pleased. “Good luck.”
“I’m about to commit career suicide,” said Turner. “Let’s hope we’ve got more on our side than luck.”
The drive to the jail was short. No one there knew Alex, so she didn’t have to worry about being recognized. She made a perfectly reasonable assistant in her borrowed corporate drag. Turner was another matter. He’d had to pop by the courthouse that morning to bump into Lance Gressang’s attorney and secure his visage in the compact.
They passed through security without incident.
“Stop looking at the cameras,” Alex whispered as she and Turner were escorted down a dingy hallway lit by buzzing fluorescents.
“They look like they’re working.”
“The power is on, but they’re just recording static,” Alex said with more confidence than she felt. The thermos was tucked into her bag, its weight resting reassuringly against her hip.
Once they were inside the meeting room, they’d be safe at least. There was no video or audio recording allowed in a conference between an attorney and his client.
Lance was seated at the table when they entered. “What do you want?” he said when he caught sight of Turner, who had pocketed the compact after flashing it at the scowling guard.
“You’ve got one hour,” the guard said. “Don’t push it.” Gressang shoved back from the table, looking from Turner to Alex. “What the fuck is this? Are you two working together?”
“One hour,” the guard repeated, and locked the door behind him.
“I know my rights,” Gressang said, standing. He looked even bigger than he had at the apartment, and his bandaged hand didn’t do much to put Alex at ease. She had made it her business