Bookkeeper for the Chicago league, Sid hadn’t realized he’d be stepping on quite so many toes—or toes so capable of kicking his ass. He thought they’d be relieved to have a replacement. Though the leagues strictly maintained their self-sufficiency, London-trained Bookkeepers, renowned for their learning and discipline, were in high demand. Even if he’d been a backwater Bookkeeper from one of the less rigorous, outlying schools, Liam and his crew should have been relieved. Talyan were never interested in books and stats and tests.
But the Chicago league seemed to delight in blasting
never
sky high.
If he could just get through to them, the exclusive research material would prove his merit as Bookkeeper once and for all. Even his father would finally have to concede and could rest easier knowing his life’s work would continue. “I need to talk to Liam. Is he still up?”
“Undoubtedly. He won’t sleep until he knows everybody survived the night. And since you were passed out in Jonah’s car …”
Sid gritted his teeth into something like a smile. “How inconvenient my maiming won’t heal in minutes.”
A spark of violet flared across her hazel iris. “You’d rather be possessed?”
He started to snap back but caught himself. What words had been about to leap off his tongue? Nothing to endear him, certainly. He said only, “I don’t want to die here either.”
Sera huffed out a breath he couldn’t interpret as approving or disappointed. “I’ll send Liam in.”
How humiliating, to interview the league leader from bed. “No, I’ll get up.”
“Liam told you to take the night off.”
“I did, and look what happened. Where can I find him?”
Sera stood back, neither helping nor hindering as he struggled out of the sloping bed and found a clean shirt. “He’ll be down at his forge in the loading bay. He had some things he wanted to pound out.”
What brilliant condition he was in to face the league leader. Sid managed to lock his knees enough to stay upright while he eased his aching arm through the sleeve. If he bent over to grab his trainers, he’d faint. That would be almost—not quite, but almost—as bad as grabbing the slip-on loafers out of his duffel.
The bloody bandages, oxidizing to a rusty brown, lay scattered like mute indictments of his vulnerability. He tried to console himself with the excuse of his near death as he left the room barefoot.
When the league’s last headquarters had been contaminated in a djinni attack, the warehouse had been remodeled with individual apartments on the second floor for the solitary talyan. Of course, they’d put him at the ass-end of the hall. And most of the fluorescent bars in the ceilingwere out since talyan didn’t need artificial lighting. Now the distance between the darkened doorways seemed to stretch with spoofed horror-movie absurdity. But he gritted his teeth—though the tension sent a warning pang through his shoulder—and propelled himself forward. If nothing else, momentum would keep him going.
Even the immortal talyan didn’t trust the old freight lift that had once delivered architectural salvage to the upper floor, so he took the stairs down. Sera’s boot heels clattered out of sync on the metal treads as she paced his slow progression. Was she making sure he didn’t keel over, or did she just want a front-row seat while the league leader straightened him out like a bent nail?
With most of the talyan resting from their nightly hunt, their edgy energy blunted by countermeasures invented by Bookkeepers, the interior halls of the warehouse could have housed any business—say, day-sleeping accountants.
Had his life unspooled differently, he could have been an accountant. That was probably true for most people—at least for people who liked their numbers in orderly columns. If he
had
been an accountant … No, he wasn’t going to start counting those ways.
He shoved open the door to the loading bay hard enough that
But the Chicago league seemed to delight in blasting
never
sky high.
If he could just get through to them, the exclusive research material would prove his merit as Bookkeeper once and for all. Even his father would finally have to concede and could rest easier knowing his life’s work would continue. “I need to talk to Liam. Is he still up?”
“Undoubtedly. He won’t sleep until he knows everybody survived the night. And since you were passed out in Jonah’s car …”
Sid gritted his teeth into something like a smile. “How inconvenient my maiming won’t heal in minutes.”
A spark of violet flared across her hazel iris. “You’d rather be possessed?”
He started to snap back but caught himself. What words had been about to leap off his tongue? Nothing to endear him, certainly. He said only, “I don’t want to die here either.”
Sera huffed out a breath he couldn’t interpret as approving or disappointed. “I’ll send Liam in.”
How humiliating, to interview the league leader from bed. “No, I’ll get up.”
“Liam told you to take the night off.”
“I did, and look what happened. Where can I find him?”
Sera stood back, neither helping nor hindering as he struggled out of the sloping bed and found a clean shirt. “He’ll be down at his forge in the loading bay. He had some things he wanted to pound out.”
What brilliant condition he was in to face the league leader. Sid managed to lock his knees enough to stay upright while he eased his aching arm through the sleeve. If he bent over to grab his trainers, he’d faint. That would be almost—not quite, but almost—as bad as grabbing the slip-on loafers out of his duffel.
The bloody bandages, oxidizing to a rusty brown, lay scattered like mute indictments of his vulnerability. He tried to console himself with the excuse of his near death as he left the room barefoot.
When the league’s last headquarters had been contaminated in a djinni attack, the warehouse had been remodeled with individual apartments on the second floor for the solitary talyan. Of course, they’d put him at the ass-end of the hall. And most of the fluorescent bars in the ceilingwere out since talyan didn’t need artificial lighting. Now the distance between the darkened doorways seemed to stretch with spoofed horror-movie absurdity. But he gritted his teeth—though the tension sent a warning pang through his shoulder—and propelled himself forward. If nothing else, momentum would keep him going.
Even the immortal talyan didn’t trust the old freight lift that had once delivered architectural salvage to the upper floor, so he took the stairs down. Sera’s boot heels clattered out of sync on the metal treads as she paced his slow progression. Was she making sure he didn’t keel over, or did she just want a front-row seat while the league leader straightened him out like a bent nail?
With most of the talyan resting from their nightly hunt, their edgy energy blunted by countermeasures invented by Bookkeepers, the interior halls of the warehouse could have housed any business—say, day-sleeping accountants.
Had his life unspooled differently, he could have been an accountant. That was probably true for most people—at least for people who liked their numbers in orderly columns. If he
had
been an accountant … No, he wasn’t going to start counting those ways.
He shoved open the door to the loading bay hard enough that
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