Wicked As You Wish (A Hundred Names for Magic #1) - Rin Chupeco Page 0,19

“Did it work?”

Tala groaned. “Gross, guys.”

Carefully, her mother placed the dress back into the wrappings and slid the lid over it. “We just wanted to make sure you’re prepared for what might happen,” she said, more seriously now. “I… The idea of the Snow Queen infiltrating a government agency on American soil… We need to take precautions. I only wish it didn’t have to come to this. We wanted to give you a normal life for just a little bit longer.”

Tala shook her head. “I’m not complaining. You’ve always taught me that some things are more important. And I want to help Alex any way I can. And also…in exchange for, you know, being really, really understanding about this whole thing, I was wondering…”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Out with it, girl.”

“Any chance I could still attend the bonfire after the championship game tomorrow?” Alex did say he wouldn’t miss it for anything, so there was a small chance he might actually show up before they spirited him away.

And Ryker will be there, a selfish part of her piped up.

“Absolutely not,” her father began with a snort, but was stopped by an elbow to the side from her mother.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she promised.

Her father grunted, but obediently followed her mother out the door. Once there, however, he stopped, turning back toward her. “Tala…”

The expression from before was back on his face: guilty, pained, haunted somehow. She’d never seen her father look like this before.

“Dad?”

But then he ran a hand through his hair, and the look disappeared. “Nothing. It’s going to be okay, love.” And then he stepped out of the room and was gone, Tala staring after him.

5

In Which the Firebird Is an Absolute Unit

The firebird arrived in Invierno later that night.

It landed atop a normal-looking mailbox. The mailbox had a Tawalisi, 22 Dharma Road decal printed on its side, and it stood in front of a normal-looking house on a normal-looking street in what was by all appearances a normal-looking suburb. Despite the town’s predilection against natural magic, most people still didn’t associate Invierno as a place where anything unusual was likely to happen. That didn’t say much about what people actually knew about small towns, or about Invierno in particular.

Rather than retreat to the safety of nearby trees and rooftops as any similarly sensible animal would have done, the firebird drew itself up, as regal as any queen, and waited for the shades to attack.

The shades in question were already closing in, and they assumed frightening, monstrous shapes. Some took human form, with long sharp claws in place of hands. Others took on semblances of wolves and bears and strange winged creatures—black eyeless silhouettes with teeth.

The firebird chirped a warning, but the shades paid no attention. So it sighed, a resigned, I-really-did-warn-you-about-this-you-know sigh, and glowed again. It was as large as an eagle and had a fascinatingly plump shape; a ham of a bird would be a frank description, if not for its long graceful neck. Its feathers, a variety of yellows and reds and oranges tipped with a subtle silver shimmer, flared. Its majestic tail fanned out like a vestal train, whipping at slow, concentrated intervals.

It chirped out its first, and final, warning.

The nearest shade reached out for the bird, claws extended and sharp.

It was promptly engulfed in an angry red ball of fire.

The shadow screamed. Its right arm skittered across the pavement.

Flames danced around the firebird. With unerring precision, it reared back and hurled them at the other shadowy wraiths, bathing the street in ruddy red heat until its enemies were reduced to nothing more than a whisper of cinders and smoke.

But even as they sank, new ones rose to take their place.

The shades were numerous, unrelenting. The firebird was young, inexperienced. Despite its ferocity, even it began to weaken under the unending assault.

Things could have ended very badly had Lola Urduja not interfered.

Lola Urduja looked nothing at all like a warrior should look. Framed against the moonlight, she appeared an incredibly fragile and elderly thing, with her mild brown eyes, dark skin, and thin white hair wrapped in a wispy bun. For armor, she wore an oversize peach bathrobe for her slim frame, and was for some reason still carrying an abanico fan in her right hand. But when she lifted her head to confront the lurking shadows, her back straightened, her shoulders squared, and the once-mild brown eyes blazed with an unexpectedly commanding air that proposed other unimportant things like cars and