“Do you have anybody else on your list? People to torture, I mean?”
Longbranch shook her head.
“That DeVries that was here—tell me about him.”
Longbranch seemed more than happy to give up her co-conspirator. “That’s Rowan DeVries, an American, of course. Very wealthy. He’s a new member of the Interguild Council, but he’s also the principal in a syndicate of assassins for hire.”
“The Black Rose?”
Longbranch looked thunderstruck. “You’ve heard of it?”
“The Black Rose has been around for a long time,” Jonah said. “Do
“She could be. She’s certainly capable of it. Only . . .” She paused. “Why would she? She’s got all the power. Moss disabled my Weirstone, but I’m still alive—if you can call it that. If it’s her, then why are these wizards dead? If it’sher, why doesn’t she just do everyone at once and get it over with?”
“It’s not just wizards,” Jonah reminded her. “Other mainli—guildlings are dying as well.”
Longbranch snorted. “What happens to the other guilds is no concern of mine.”
She was still moving, and now Jonah could see that she was headed toward a desk at the side of the room.
Jonah watched her inch along with part of his brain while the rest wrestled with Longbranch’s revelations. “And it’s happening all over?”
“Everywhere,” Longbranch said. “Starting about two years ago.” She’d reached her goal. Now she stood, her hips braced back against the desk, leaning on the heels of her hands. “May I ask you a question?”
“You can ask. I may not answer.”
“Who sent you? If you’re not working for Madison Moss, then who
“McCauley?” Jonah shook his head. “No.”
“Hastings? Hastings, then?”
“No. Not Hastings.”
“I have it!” Longbranch said. “You’re working for DeVries. You were sent to find out how much we know. And then to kill us.”
“I told you. I came for Ms. Brodie. But you tortured her, and then you murdered her.” He paused, long enough for his words to register, then said, “I want to know why. Specifically. Who’s working with you, and what are you planning to do?”
Just then Jonah’s secure cell phone went off. Incoming Stext from Charlie Dugard, head of Nightshade’s European operation.
He scanned the screen.
That would go out to any slayer within range.
Taking advantage of Jonah’s momentary distraction, Longbranch scooped a dagger off her desk, turned, and lunged at him, attempting to bury the blade beneath his breastbone. Jonah intercepted her hands, gripping both wrists, and slammed her up against the wall.
Longbranch looked down at the dagger between them, just pricking his sweatshirt, at his hands gripping her bare wrists. Then looked up into his eyes.
“Oh,” she said, her lips curving into a dreamy smile. “My dear. You are
Jessamine Longbranch died happy. Now Jonah Kinlock had someplace he had to be.
Chapter Three
Slayer
Jonah took the Northern Line to the Camden Town stop. It was likely the quickest way to get there, but still—it seemed to take forever.
Slayer down. Was it someone he knew? He’d heard that Charlie’s group had been investigating shade activity along the Regent Canal. An eighteen-year-old warrior savant, Charlie was tall, buff, and totally bald, with the gift of picking up any language within a few minutes of hearing it. That made him a good choice to head Nightshade’s European operations.
Exiting the station, Jonah veered right, up the Camden High Street toward the lock, following the signal from Charlie’s cell phone. Crossing the canal, he descended the steps to the towpath, turning toward Regent’s Park. The breeze blowing down the canal brought with it the stink of mischief, the mingled scent of free magic and rotting flesh that signaled that hosted shades were nearby. “Where are you, Charlie?” Jonah said into the phone. “I’m close. Talk to me.”
“On a boat,” Charlie gasped. “The one being foundered Sby shades. Can’t miss it.”
Rounding a curve in the canal, Jonah saw, up ahead, one of the narrow cruise boats that plied the canal. It sat low in the water, drifting nearly crosswise in the channel, as if it had lost its rudder.
On all sides of the boat, the water teemed with hosted shades, swarming up the sides, boosting themselves up and over the rail. Organized, coordinated, planned. This wasn’t a mob—it was an army.
Shades were lone wolves, notorious for squabbling with one another, competing for fresh meat, and backstabbing, so to speak. This was something new.
Unhosted shades were nearly invisible to the naked eye, seen as a flicker of movement or a thickening of the air, like one of those transparent jellyfish in the ocean that you never notice . . . until you get stung. Shadeslayers wore Nightshade amulets to make unhosted shades easier to see.
Though they weren’t substantial enough to physically attack anyone, unhosted shades might startle someone into falling, or jumping out into traffic. Every shade’s goal was to acquire a host—to possess a fresh cadaver to walk around in. To experience the world in. To kill the next host in, since fresh cadavers never stayed fresh very long. So even hosted shades were always hunting new hosts.
Up ahead, a bridge arched over the canal. Jonah put on speed, threading his way between late-night joggers and bicyclists. He sprinted up the stairs to street level and crossed to the center of the bridge. Ripping off his gloves, he drew Fragarach. As the stricken boat passed beneath him, he leaped onto its roof, flopping down on his stomach so he wouldn’t be raked off by the low bridge.
When they were clear of the bridge, Jonah vaulted down to the deck. Some of the shades had been scraped off by the narrow channel, but others were still attempting to clamber aboard. He ran the perimeter of the boat, swinging Fragarach, scything through corpsy arms, allowing the bodies to drop into the river. There was no time to finish the free shades now. He had to get below.
He threw himself down the stairs. The main cabin looked like a fancy party turned into a drunken brawl. Tables were overturned and broken glass and bodies lay scattered over the floor. Charlie and Therese had herded the dozen or so survivors into a corner, forming a bristling wall of blades between the shades and the civilians.
Jonah launched his attack from the rear, cutting four cadavers in half before they knew he was there. Free shades escaped their hosts, fleeing in all directions as their hosted comrades turned on Jonah.
We can’t finish them when they come in numbers, he thought. Clever. Who thought of that?
After that, it was a matter of slash and dismember. The shades wielded a mixture of weapons—everything from swords to iron bars. Some may have been crude, but they were still deadly if they connected. Jonah was everywhere, cutting down bodies until there wasn’t enough left to come back at him.
Suddenly, as if they’d heard a signal, the shades abandoned the attack and swarmed back up the stairs. Jonah walked among the bodies, looking for survivors, while the other two slayers kept the civilians penned up and out of the way. One of the downed civilians—an elderly lady in a Tower Sof London sweatshirt—was moving, struggling to sit up. Jonah crossed to her and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She looked up, and that’s when he smelled the free magic and noticed that the back of her head was
