Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (i can read with my eyes shut TXT) 📗

Free at last, Trey stalked up to Winter, Sorrow whole and solid in his hand. “What the hell did you do that for?” he snarled.

Winter looked at him, face pinched and grey, a tightness Trey could not decipher around his mouth. “What am I to say to your father,” he said with awful gentleness, “if he lost you to the Shadow Lands, too?”

Chapter Eleven

Trey propped up a wall in Winter’s office, staring at Atwater through narrowed eyes. The politician, looking shrunken and tired, sagged in a chair and ran his hands through his thick mane.

“So, yes, I was at that pawnshop. I admit that—and I also lied to St. Ash about it. Truth is, my election campaign is costing me money I don’t have. So I’ve been pawning some of my personal effects.”

Winter stood, leaning his hands on his desk. In front of him was a statement from Atwater’s clerk confirming that the politician had slipped out between meetings Wednesday evening. Sutton had divined the whereabouts of the hackney driver that had taken Atwater to the Fleet—not hard to do considering the man was in the hospice, reeking of phantasmia, magic of the Shadow Lands far more inimical to mortal life than the aether Trey used in Vaeland. The driver remembered taking up a gentleman, but nothing much after that. He had been found in the wreckage of his own carriage in a field outside Lumen, his horse screaming in pain, leg broken.

Lee reported that the wreckage was riddled with phantasmia and rotting quickly. The horse, crazed and sprouting horns and drooling poison, had to be put down.

Trey was sure this was the carriage that had run Arabella Trent down in the street on her way home Wednesday night. That Atwater was also connected to it was no coincidence.

Arabella. His hand clenched. It had been four hours since her disappearance. The Phantasm Bureau had been busy in that time, but it wasn’t enough.

It was almost Saturday.

Winter levelled a penetrating look at Atwater. “Why in the Fleet, though? There are more respectable money lenders elsewhere.”

“Because, August,” said Atwater, with a hint of acerbity in his voice, “I was embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone to know I was purse-pinched. I went to the Fleet, so no one would recognize me.” He gave a short bark of laughter, entirely without humor. “It didn’t work.”

“And why that pawnshop?” August persisted.

Atwater shrugged impatiently, as if twitching off an annoying fly. “Because it was deep in the Fleet and looked as if it would be able to preserve my anonymity.”

“You mean it looked secretive and shady.” Trey spoke for the first time.

Atwater turned his head. The two exchanged looks, Atwater angry, nostrils flared; Trey cold and hard.

Atwater dropped his stare first. “Yes, I suspected some petty criminal activity was going on. After all, it’s the Fleet. But it’s been tolerated for as long as Lumen has existed. How was I supposed to know Gibbs dealt in contraband from his back room? He didn’t offer me a jar of kraken’s blood in exchange for my pocket watch!”

“Saints, Reginald!” Winter shook his head. “If you were having trouble, you should’ve come to your friends first.”

“Friends, August?” Atwater’s smile was bitter. Now that he’d dropped his affable mask, the lines of disappointment and cynicism etched into his face were clear. “A man like me doesn’t have friends. Only sycophants wanting to either pull me down or use me as a stepping stool for their own careers.”

“Then you’ve been in politics too long.” Winter’s narrow face was pale and stony. “Perhaps it’s better for you to get out before it destroys you.”

Atwater lifted his shoulders. “I say the same every election. Yet here I am.” He spread his hands.

“Let this be the last time, then. In four years, we’ll go on a hunting trip to Elkshire. What do you say?”

Atwater laughed again, more sad than bitter this time. “Aye,” he agreed and rose to his feet. “I’m telling you the truth, August,” he went on earnestly. “I had no idea what the pawnbroker did alongside his lawful business. I saw no ghouls, no demons, no elementals in amongst all the rest of his rubbish.”

Winter inclined his head.

“Am I free to go?” Atwater made a questioning gesture.

“I have no further questions,” said Winter. “I only ask that you make yourself available if there are other developments.”

“I will,” promised Atwater. “In exchange, can I trust you’ll keep my private affairs to yourself?” He half-turned, including the silent Trey.

“Of course.” Winter’s voice was weary. Trey gave a sharp, downward jerk of his chin.

Right now, Arabella was his chief concern.

They waited in silence as Atwater left the room. They heard his footsteps, the scuffle of boots as Sutton and Morgan got to their feet, the mutter of voices, the distant slam of the outer door.

Trey turned to Winter.

“Before you say anything,” said Winter, “the truth spell did not react during this conversation.” He lifted his hand and showed Trey a lattice of silver runes, more complex than anything Trey could create.

“I see.” Surprise rippled through Trey. He hadn’t expected Winter to do much beyond taking Atwater at his word.

“Of course,” Winter mused, staring at the door, “truth spells are known to be notoriously unreliable. But they are not entirely useless. For instance, a well-done truth spell will flicker and change as its subject talks, depending on the rise and fall of his emotions. Did you know that?”

“I confess I haven’t studied truth spells in depth, sir. What did yours tell you?”

“My spell did not change at all. Not when Atwater spoke of his embarrassment, not when he showed the weary bitterness behind his mask. He was more honest with me in the last hour than he has in months, and the truth spell did not change.”

Trey straightened. “What does that mean?

Winter transferred his gaze from the door to Trey’s face. “It means,” he said with black humor, “that either I don’t deserve the title of Runemaster or that someone put