were stacked over by one wall. A gurney waited in the middle of the room. One table had been opened to hold a metal suitcase with tools couched in some kind of foam.
The plague scars. To make him look like a mage.
With his shroud of Shadow in place, Cari would not know him for what he was.
“If you will disrobe,” Laurence said. Polite words uttered by power.
Mason got the feeling that the angel could look right into him. That he could see the scraping filth that had been his early childhood. The tough living as a boy, like a stray dog begging for scraps. The hours he’d spent squatting in the dark, attempting to master his Shadow craft, trying to make something of himself as he labored with clumsy fingers at this or that invention. Then the teenager, showing off for pretty mage girls. The wild hope that was Livia. So reckless, loving danger. Then being shut out of her House, a dog again. And finally Fletcher, who’d made the world and this life finally make sense.
But Laurence didn’t speak of any of that, though Mason knew for sure that the angel had seen it all in one glance. “Your clothes, please.”
Mason nodded. He stripped until he was naked—in front of them he was naked regardless—and then climbed up on the table to lie on his back.
One of the angels brought up a tool. “An anesthetic.”
But Laurence stayed his hand. “He’s numb already.”
And it was true. Mason felt the burns as if from a distance, an abstract kind of pain. One on his chest, and another at the lymph node near his groin. Sizzle, snap.
The wounds had to be able to be hidden by clothes, or Webb would have noticed their absence.
His thigh burned. Then some scattered pocks like blisters. And another tool to accelerate the healing process. Each welt itched and crackled as his flesh reknit. And he didn’t really care.
The worst of them were covered with cotton bandages and tape—drug store stuff. And then he dressed to leave again. He didn’t like being here; didn’t like the knowing gaze of one angel in particular.
But as Mason made to leave, Laurence touched him on the arm. “You wondered once how you might perceive your soul.”
Laurence had seen too much.
Mason shuddered. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t need proof to distance him even more from his son. Not anymore. Please not today.
But Laurence didn’t pity him this time. “Mason Stray.”
Every atom of Mason’s body reverberated, as if struck with a tuning fork. The welts finally ached, pain blooming everywhere, especially his heart. He staggered.
“You are your soul.”
Mid-scrawl on a notepad, an inset window popped up on Cari’s laptop screen over her flooded e-mail inbox. The window showed streaming video of an old blue car, what an optimist might call vintage, awaiting entry to the Dolan grounds. A dialogue box below the video read, Mason Stray, here on business for Ms. Dolan.
Here we go.
She looked at the time. 2:35 p.m. He was running late.
Lifting wards now, she typed to notify the guardhouse.
A deep thought and Cari reached for the ward stones buried deep within the foundation of the house. The resonant response in her umbra grounded her. Stones meant strength, an echo that rippled through the diffuse magic in the room.
In the window on her computer screen, Mason’s car crossed the wardline and drove out of sight, toward the main house.
She had to remind herself that he was like her—he’d already contracted and survived the mage plague, and was not a carrier. Mason was safe for her House and her family. But his arrival still made her uneasy—she did not like people going in and out. Cari moved to meet him herself; she didn’t want the ceremony of staff leading him to her. It felt awkward with a stray, with Mason , as if he were beneath her. She would meet Mason head on.
She found her stepmother in the hall looking out one of the slender windows that flanked the sides of the massive front door. Scarlet managed to be elegant,
The plague scars. To make him look like a mage.
With his shroud of Shadow in place, Cari would not know him for what he was.
“If you will disrobe,” Laurence said. Polite words uttered by power.
Mason got the feeling that the angel could look right into him. That he could see the scraping filth that had been his early childhood. The tough living as a boy, like a stray dog begging for scraps. The hours he’d spent squatting in the dark, attempting to master his Shadow craft, trying to make something of himself as he labored with clumsy fingers at this or that invention. Then the teenager, showing off for pretty mage girls. The wild hope that was Livia. So reckless, loving danger. Then being shut out of her House, a dog again. And finally Fletcher, who’d made the world and this life finally make sense.
But Laurence didn’t speak of any of that, though Mason knew for sure that the angel had seen it all in one glance. “Your clothes, please.”
Mason nodded. He stripped until he was naked—in front of them he was naked regardless—and then climbed up on the table to lie on his back.
One of the angels brought up a tool. “An anesthetic.”
But Laurence stayed his hand. “He’s numb already.”
And it was true. Mason felt the burns as if from a distance, an abstract kind of pain. One on his chest, and another at the lymph node near his groin. Sizzle, snap.
The wounds had to be able to be hidden by clothes, or Webb would have noticed their absence.
His thigh burned. Then some scattered pocks like blisters. And another tool to accelerate the healing process. Each welt itched and crackled as his flesh reknit. And he didn’t really care.
The worst of them were covered with cotton bandages and tape—drug store stuff. And then he dressed to leave again. He didn’t like being here; didn’t like the knowing gaze of one angel in particular.
But as Mason made to leave, Laurence touched him on the arm. “You wondered once how you might perceive your soul.”
Laurence had seen too much.
Mason shuddered. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t need proof to distance him even more from his son. Not anymore. Please not today.
But Laurence didn’t pity him this time. “Mason Stray.”
Every atom of Mason’s body reverberated, as if struck with a tuning fork. The welts finally ached, pain blooming everywhere, especially his heart. He staggered.
“You are your soul.”
Mid-scrawl on a notepad, an inset window popped up on Cari’s laptop screen over her flooded e-mail inbox. The window showed streaming video of an old blue car, what an optimist might call vintage, awaiting entry to the Dolan grounds. A dialogue box below the video read, Mason Stray, here on business for Ms. Dolan.
Here we go.
She looked at the time. 2:35 p.m. He was running late.
Lifting wards now, she typed to notify the guardhouse.
A deep thought and Cari reached for the ward stones buried deep within the foundation of the house. The resonant response in her umbra grounded her. Stones meant strength, an echo that rippled through the diffuse magic in the room.
In the window on her computer screen, Mason’s car crossed the wardline and drove out of sight, toward the main house.
She had to remind herself that he was like her—he’d already contracted and survived the mage plague, and was not a carrier. Mason was safe for her House and her family. But his arrival still made her uneasy—she did not like people going in and out. Cari moved to meet him herself; she didn’t want the ceremony of staff leading him to her. It felt awkward with a stray, with Mason , as if he were beneath her. She would meet Mason head on.
She found her stepmother in the hall looking out one of the slender windows that flanked the sides of the massive front door. Scarlet managed to be elegant,
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