War of the Networks Read online

  I reached for the small loaf of bread but stopped when I heard an unusual rustle. My heart sped up. The smallest corner of an envelope peeked out from beneath the bread. A hint of cinnamon wafted into the air.

  Herbs from Zane.

  No wonder the small girl was nervous. She must have known. I shifted to the left, stretching to grab a book just barely out of reach while also blocking Juba’s view of the tray with my body. With my right hand, I slipped my fingers underneath the bread, wrapped them around the small brown packet, and slipped it into my undergarment just as my left hand grasped the book. When I straightened, Juba huffed and laid his head on top of his paws, none the wiser.

  Good work, Zane, I thought with a surge of pride. Now all I have to do is practice transform—

  Juba shot to his feet, his hackles high and his nose in the air. I startled, my heart racing. Had he noticed me grabbing the herbs?

  He sniffed and stepped back uneasily. I straightened, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. Juba wasn’t my friend, but he had uncanny instincts. Something must be happening. To my great surprise, Mabel sashayed into the room with bloodstains on her skirt.

  She moved as deliberately as a hand fasting march. Juka trailed behind, her ears down, casting wary eyes on her master. Blood streaked Mabel’s jaw and splattered across her cheeks in little red dots. Her unfocused eyes burned as red as coals. I stood and backed away, reaching behind my back for a mosaic-glass vase. If she had finally given in to her insanity, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “It’s an interesting thing, Almorran magic,” Mabel said, her eyes wide and dilated. “Very interesting. It feels so wonderful. So strong. Without it, I am nothing. Nothing.”

  “Is that your blood?” I asked, swallowing. The sharp edges of the vase bit into my palm when I tightened my grip. It wouldn’t make for much of a weapon against the Almorran Master, but I felt better with something solid in my hand.

  She grinned but made no response as she stopped in front of the window and gazed out at the vast undulations of sand beyond the capital city of Custos. Heat lines wavered from side to side, breaking up the horizontal monotony. Juka disappeared between the gauzy curtains.

  “There’s so much Derek doesn’t know,” Mabel said. A slow, gradual laugh bubbled from her chest until she screeched with mirth, nearly doubled over. “He’s a fool to stand against me. An ignorant fool!”

  She’s mad. She’s finally snapped.

  Juba’s ear twitched. He looked outside and lifted his nose again. When I strained to hear, a familiar wail rang through the marketplace. Mabel’s laughter ceased. She whipped around with a hiss, wild eyes on the balcony.

  “Silence!” she screamed.

  A cold feeling sank in my stomach. The same mournful chant had sounded through the West when their High Priest, Almack, died over a year earlier. The cries seemed to come from the camps to the east. Mabel clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white.

  “He had to die!” she said, speaking in a steady, chugging cadence. “He was a danger. Watchers must die. They must die for what they see, for what they know. He was not powerful anymore. No, I am the only powerful one. They saw him as a leader. He must not be a leader. Must not.”

  Watchers must die? Her rage against Watchers wasn’t new. Throughout history, many witches had feared their ability to see future possibilities, while others coveted it, sometimes imprisoning them and forcing them, under torture, to reveal what they saw. Isadora’s likely fate now that Mabel had taken her. Limiting the use of Watchers to benign purposes, such as student placement in the Network School system, had been a peacemaking attempt during the formation of the Mansfeld Pact. But why was Mabel railing against them now?

  Mabel ripped her hands through her hair and paced back and forth, the many layers of her elaborate green gown rustling with every step. Her words played in my mind.

  They saw him as a leader.

  He was not powerful anymore.

  Since Watchers often kept their gifts secret, I only knew of one other Watcher.

  “Dane,” I whispered. “You killed Dane, didn’t you?”

  Dane—a Watcher not nearly as powerful as Isadora—had run the Western Network during Almack’s illness. Once Almack died, Dane took over as High Priest and served under Angelina’s direction during Mabel’s imprisonment. I hadn’t known what had happened to him once Mabel killed Angelina and returned to the West; he’d just seemed to fade into Mabel’s shadow. That she’d killed a Watcher who served her surely meant Mabel had lost her sanity.

  “No!” she yelled. “The magic killed Dane. Don’t you see? The magic did! I’m just the vessel, the carrier of something far greater than myself. It’s so strong. It does what it wants.” She stopped pacing to laugh again, low, long, and deep. Her back curved, and she tucked her chin into her chest with a breathy laugh. “All this time I worked for control, and it does what it wants.”

  Juba had disappeared, no doubt hiding with Juka. Had Mabel finally broken? Would she—or the magic—decide I had lived long enough?

  Mabel fell silent. She straightened and stared out the window, her jaw tight and eyes constricted. Her hands relaxed. She breathed easier. The hysterical energy abated.

  “Get out of my sight, Bianca,” she said, her voice weak with exhaustion. “Do not speak of this ever again, or I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  I hesitated only a moment before making a wide arc around her, the vase still in my grip. I stepped out onto the balcony and sat with my back against the wall, staring at the horizon where the sky met the sand, desperately trying to remember everything I knew about transformative magic.

  Tomorrow, I promised myself. I will start practicing transformation tomorrow.

  I feared I had almost run out of time.

  When I stood up the next morning and headed for the bathroom, Juba followed suit, glaring at me with narrowed eyes. Whether he sensed my nerves or was just being his usual, overbearing self, I couldn’t tell.

  “Calm down,” I said to him. “I’m just going to wash up in the bathroom.”

  He slinked along behind me until he stood a few paces from the door, where he collapsed on the ground with feline indifference. I carried the white porcelain pitcher filled with fresh water into the bathroom and bolted the wooden door behind me. The bolt slid back, and I scowled. Mabel’s protective magic wouldn’t even let me lock myself in to take a bath.

  Or pretend to take a bath.

  A tub with tarnished clawed feet and a rounded lip ran along the wall. Next to it stood a shelf stocked with towels and washcloths. Unfortunately, Mabel wouldn’t spare precious water for a prisoner like me, so I wouldn’t have a lot of time to practice transformation before Juba became suspicious. No matter how good my acting job, I couldn’t justify thirty minutes for a pitcher bath.

  A long, thin wooden bench ran along one wall. I reached behind it, reassured when my fingertips brushed my stash of drying parsley. It would have to be enough, for no more had come today. Despite the hot, dry air, it would still be another day or two before I could grind all the herbs into a fine enough powder to blend with the slab of meat Juba received some mornings.

  I used a spell to splash the water in the pitcher, making it sound like I was taking a sponge bath, and sat on the edge of the deep tub. Priscilla had taught me detailed work with transformative magic a few times, but she’d focused mostly on smaller objects, like my hair, nose, or clothing. Changing my entire body into a different creature was another matter, requiring a more precise execution of the magic. I’d never attempted such large-scale transformation. Unfortunately, my limited experience would have to suffice.

  “All right,” I whispered, blowing out one long, uncertain breath. I banished my lingering, hesitant thoughts. “I can do this. I have to do this. I’ll start small and work up.”

  Only confidence, Priscilla always said during our transformation lessons. Otherwise you’ll be distracted, and your transformations won’t come out perfect. The
magic can sense any hesitation.

  I didn’t have much margin for error. No, I had no margin for error.

  Thankfully, transformation only altered the physical aspects, which would leave me full control over my mental capacities. For a while, at least. I shuddered at the thought of turning to the wild side, like Juba, and not coming back out of the magic. Of course, there were worse animals to change into. At least a cheetah could run fast.

  I picked up a bar of soap and closed my eyes, conjuring up a clear image of Juba in my mind. Not difficult, considering we spent all day with each other. Once I had a mental image of him, I set the magic to work.

  The bar of soap levitated in the air in a swirl of light. It rotated for a few seconds and began to elongate. A tail formed. A head. Two ears. Patches of fur sprouted along the long, elegant spine of a cheetah the size of my palm. Keeping all my concentration on directing the magic required a great deal of mental capacity, but I persevered until the baby cheetah let out a growl that sounded more like a squeak. He fell into my waiting hand.

  “It worked!” I whispered in disbelief. He had several bald spots, his nose was purple, and one ear was long and floppy while the other was short, but he moved and breathed. A solid start. Now I knew I could make a cheetah. Next, I’d have to practice with parts of the whole.

  The shuffle of Juba’s paws outside the bathroom door drew my attention. He snarled and butted the door with his head. I clamped a hand over the tiny cheetah’s mouth and paused.

  “I’m hurrying,” I said, forcing exasperation into my tone. “Jikes. A girl can’t even take her time with a bath.”

  Juba paused. He sniffed under the door, and I held my breath. Did he detect my magic? Smell the tiny cheetah? With haste, I used the counter spell to reverse the transformation. Five seconds later, the cheetah pulled back together, forming a misshapen blob of soap that oozed through my fingers. Clearly I still had some work to do.

  I splashed water on my face and hands just as the door blew open, slamming into my shoulder. Juba pressed his way in, his eyes narrowed and teeth bared.

  “Calm down,” I muttered, slinging the remaining soap back into the wooden box.

  With casual ease, I rinsed the soap off my hands, wiped my face, and slipped past him into the main chamber, my heart pounding. Juba lingered for only a moment, whipping his head from side to side in search of something he couldn’t find. I settled back on the divan, buried myself in a book, and let my muscles relax with relief. Putting difficult spells into work had settled some of my prickly, agitated magic.

  First attempt down, I thought, looking down at my arms and imagining them with fur. Next time I’ll change myself.

  Slow, thudding footsteps moved down the hallway toward my prison the next day. Ten seconds later, a familiar pair of dark youthful eyes peered around the corner and looked right at me. The little maid was back.

  I jerked my head toward Mabel’s curtained-off bedroom.

  “She’s here,” I mouthed.

  The young girl disappeared back into the hall but reappeared with a familiar bucket and mop. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed—with Mabel around, I had no hope of getting answers out of the little girl. A rustle behind the curtains announced Mabel’s entrance into the open living space. She strolled forward, her bright red eyes trained on the maid. The girl froze, her eyes wide.

  A wrinkled garment dangled from the tip of Mabel’s finger. She stopped halfway across the room.

  “Do you see this, Zoe?” Mabel asked.

  Zoe, I thought with triumph. Finally, a name! Zoe tensed, her shoulders pulled back. Her eyes flickered to the doorway and back to Mabel.

  “There’s a stain on this dress,” Mabel said, lifting it higher in the air. An oily, black substance smeared the fabric, as if someone had used it to try to clean up spilled ink. I looked at Mabel’s desk out of the corner of my eye. A half-full inkwell sat a hand’s-breadth from the edge.

  “What is this stain, Zoe?” Mabel asked.

  Zoe stood still, her eyes wide. She hadn’t moved. The two of them stared at each other like a predator and prey about to run to the death. I braced my feet and scooted to the front of my chair, ready to spring at any moment. When Zoe didn’t respond, Mabel spoke again in the common language. Zoe paled. She shook her head. Her left foot slipped back just a little, giving her a wider stance.

  Mabel lifted an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t know anything about the missing ink then, would you?” she asked in the common language again, her voice a sing-song. I translated in my head, frantically trying to recall the conjugated words.

  “You didn’t spill the ink one day while collecting my laundry, then ball the garment up and stuff it under my mattress?” Mabel’s nostrils flared.

  Zoe slipped back another step. Her hair swayed around her jaw as she swallowed and shook her head. Her knees knocked together.

  “You did it!” Mabel screamed, stomping three steps toward the girl. “I know you did!”

  I shot to my feet. “No,” I cried. “I did it!”

  Both Mabel and Zoe turned to me at the same time. Mabel’s eyes narrowed. “No, you didn’t,” she hissed. “I know this pathetic brat is guilty.”

  Whether Zoe did or did not spill something on the dress didn’t matter. She’d die if Mabel caught her, and enough witches had suffered that fate while I watched.

  “Yes, I did.” I started forward, stopping mid-stride when Juba growled from behind me. “It was me,” I said, keeping a wary eye on him. “I used the ink the first day I got here.”

  Mabel’s eyes became slits. “What for?” she asked.

  “I … I was trying to grease the manacle and pull it off. It was the only liquid I could find. I panicked when I realized you’d figure it out, so I grabbed the dress, cleaned up the ink, and shoved the whole mess under your mattress.”

  “You would have used magic to clean it up,” Mabel said, but her eyes lingered on me as if she wasn’t quite sure.

  “Why?” I countered. “It’s not like I expected you to conduct regular checks under your mattress for anything. Besides, most cleaning spells require water, and you don’t give me enough as it is.”

  Mabel straightened. “I don’t believe you. You’re annoying and self-sacrificing, and I won’t let her get away with blatant destruction of my property.”

  She started toward the girl again, but I darted between them, shoving Zoe behind my back. I kept my eyes locked on Mabel’s broiling red irises.

  “Prove I didn’t,” I said.

  Mabel slapped me. The smack of her palm connecting with my cheek rang in my ears a split second before I felt the pain. My body twisted to the side. It wasn’t the first time I’d been slapped—Merrick and Papa had cracked me in the face while training before, though not with as much force. My right eye watered.

  “You. Are. My. Prisoner,” Mabel said through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to make demands.”

  A shot of pain rushed through my body, anchoring my arms to my side, forcing my knees to bend and my spine to stiffen until it locked me into position. Even though I tried, I couldn’t move. Any paltry attempt I made to counter the magic met with total resistance. In the face of her sheer magical power, I stood no chance. Mabel cracked me in the face again, breaking the spell before I fell to the ground. Tears leaked out of my eye when I climbed back to my feet to face her again.

  “You still maintain that it was you?” she asked calmly, tilting her head back. Her chest heaved up and down. “You’re sure?”

  I swallowed. “Positive.”

  Mabel’s mind tugged on mine just before a leaden wave of Almorran magic moved through the room.

  “Run, Zoe!” I cried. “Run!”

  Mabel dropped the dress. It hovered in a waterfall of silk before bolting through the air, wrapping around my neck, and tightening. Zoe darted away, disappearing into the hall.

  “Foolish idiot!” Mabel screamed, slamming me into the far wall with a wave of power so strong that pieces of rock
dribbled onto the top of my head. I wrestled with the fabric, clawing at it with my nails. The song of Mabel’s mind started in my head again, so distant it was almost indiscernible.

  “Why must you get involved in things that have nothing to do with you?” Mabel cried in the background, pinning me to the wall. “You’re worthless. Utterly worthless! I have no use for you. You can’t do the simplest magic the way I direct, and you’ll pay for your foolishness!”

  The dress inched tighter and tighter. My ears rang. My head pounded. White dots flashed before my eyes. Nothing gave way. Mabel’s face had taken on a frightening intensity, as if she didn’t even see me.

  “You’ll never be better than me. Never! You’ll never amount to anything. I’ll find someone else to do the work you can’t do!”

  Her screaming faded. The borders between my own mind and Mabel’s had nearly merged again, resurrecting the steady, cold voice of Mabel’s grandmother.

  You’ll never amount to anything, Mabel. Nothing.

  “That’s what you get for trying to be better than me!” Mabel said, slapping me across the cheek again. The voices in my head grew in volume and intensity. My fingers tingled.

  I could never love something as ugly as you. Your whore of a mother left you because she couldn’t love you either. You’ve always been a burden, and you always will be. Put your arms out. I’ll teach you what happens when you don’t listen.

  A final surge of energy rushed through me. Although I didn’t know the capabilities of the magic that connected Mabel’s mind to mine, I only had time for one attempt.

  If you kill me, Papa will destroy you, I thought. You’ll have no leverage against him. He will win, Mabel. You’ll lose everything.

  The dress disappeared, setting me free. The voices in my head ceased. I dropped to my knees, drawing in gasps of air. I vomited twice and rolled onto my side, my chest heaving. Mabel was gone. Juba stared at me with bored curiosity but looked away and made no move to come closer.