Black London 05 - Soul Trade

breeds sloppiness, Connor Caldecott would have told her. She’d learned that before she was even aware of it, watching her father get ready for work every day, double and triple check his gun and his kit, make sure his warrant card was in full view, the simple laminated slip displaying hisnarrow face and combed-back hair, raven black above a brow that she couldn’t remember ever not being furrowed.
    At last, Pete found a stairwell and felt her stomach unknot just a little. Stairs at least meant she was going somewhere. She took them two at a time, forcing herself to be slow and quiet as she opened the door at the bottom. A long, narrow hall greeted her, lit only by the flickeringglow of candles set into notches in the wall. Pete reeled as all at once the magic absent from the upper floors launched at her like a flood tide. So much power it nearly took her feet out from under her, made her grab the wall to stay upright. Pete gagged. This wasn’t right. The Black here was too strong, too overwhelming. She’d crossed a barrier and triggered some kind of terrible drowning trapmade of magic.
    Forcing herself to stand and move, Pete kept walking. She wasn’t sure if it was the overwhelming pummeling of the Black on her talent or simply exhaustion and fear, but the hallway seemed to expand and narrow as she approached the far end. Though she knew it was only an optical illusion, Pete shivered. It was cold here, and damp, and the magic still howled and scraped at her talent,begging to be let in, be eaten up and absorbed and allowed to unleash whatever the Weir might desire.
    Pete fell against the far door, which was mercifully unlocked, and stumbled through it. On the other side, the darkness was absolute, except for a thin beam of light from somewhere that reached the surface of the earth. Pete stared. There was no way—no way she could have descended one staircasefrom an upper-floor and suddenly be meters below the earth, in a basement.
    She heard the click of stiletto heels on the stone floor. The beam of light illuminated a pool of water lapping at the edge of slate tiles, a black plinth rising from the depths, covered in centuries of moss and grime, but little else. Pete stayed still, tracking the sound, until the woman came into view. She’d changedher clothes and wore a smart gray blazer, denim, and pumps that would have set Pete back five or six exorcism jobs—and that was just if every client paid.
    “I did tell you if you decided to play the clever game, you’d lose,” the woman said, cocking an eyebrow at Pete. She wasn’t pretty, but she had the sort of face you couldn’t look away from, and a few spun-copper curls had worked their way freefrom her pile of hair.
    “Sorry,” Pete said, acutely aware of her slept-in clothes and the mess of tarry black hair falling in her eyes. “That’s a bit like asking water not to be wet.”
    “You’re cute, aren’t you?” the woman said, with a twist of a frown. “How’s that worked out for you so far?”
    Pete felt the hand with the geas prickle, cat claws scraping across her flesh, and forced a smile. “I’vehad better days.”
    “I know you don’t believe me,” said the woman. “But we did bring you here for something other than locking you up and then watching you try to escape.” She closed the distance between them and extended her hand to Pete. “I’ll make you a bargain—you stay and listen like we asked, and I’ll take the geas off now. I’ll extend my trust to you, because I see our usual methods justwon’t work, and I’m smart enough to adapt. Deal?”
    Pete regarded the hand. Small and soft, nails done in a red just slightly more luminous than blood. Hands that had reached for Preston Mayflower as he flew into traffic, hands that had searched his pockets in the moments after, only to find nothing.
    “Deal,” she said, and grasped the woman’s flesh. She got nothing. Not power, not an abscene ofit. A brick wall—one, she was sure, carefully constructed to avoid the problem of skin contact with other mages. It was a good trick, one Pete freely admitted that she’d kick a sweet old pensioner to learn.
    “I’m Morwenna,” said the woman. “The fellow who was with me last night is Victor. You’ll meet the others who’ve arrived tomorrow at supper.”
    “You all just got first names?” Pete asked. “Thatpart of being a Promethean—you all go the Cher route?”
    “Being a Promethean is many things,” Morwenna said.