Magic Tides

4

The road was narrow but well maintained. Fields stretched on both sides, fluffy blueberry rows on the left and a wall of corn on the right. The sun was slowly but steadily rolling toward the horizon somewhere behind the corn.

That’s what you want, visiting the navigators just before dusk. Ugh.

In my mind’s eye, eleven red sparks burned like annoying little embers, five to the right and six to the left. Two vampire teams, each spark an undead piloted by a navigator. We couldn’t see them, but they were there, steadily working their way to us.

When my father had created the People, his purposes were complex and layered. He had wanted a network of information-gathering installations and access to a garrison armed with deadly weapons in every major city. Because vampires were expensive to obtain and maintain, he had needed these installations to generate income. He had also required a way to bring talented navigators under his control, train them, and indoctrinate them into a hierarchy with himself at the top of the pyramid. He had strove toward a monopoly on vampire ownership, while also devoting much of his considerable resources to research into undeath and its uses. The truth, which he readily admitted to me, despite his massive ego, was that even though he had originated vampirism, he didn’t fully comprehend the mechanism by which it worked.

The People were the answer to all those needs. Their bases performed community outreach, operated entertainment venues, apprehended loose vampires at no charge, and provided an opportunity for the terminally ill to sell their bodies to be infected with the Immortuus pathogen, which would turn them into vampires after death, for a substantial payout to their family. The population at large simply accepted the People, somehow ignoring the fact that they could unleash a horde of lethal monsters in the centers of most cities at any moment.

It was perhaps my father’s second greatest confidence scheme. He had managed to convince everyone that the People were perfectly safe, productive contributors to their local community, when a single vampire, piloted by a skilled Master of the Dead, could depopulate ten city blocks in a matter of minutes.

On the left, an undead scuttled into view. Gaunt, hairless, and smeared in purple sunblock, it moved on all fours like its body had never walked upright. It was as if something took a human, bled them dry, skinned them, stripped off all their fat, and then stretched a thick, leathery hide over the bone and muscle. A nightmare come to life. The small cross-body satchel hanging from its left shoulder somehow just made the horror of it worse.

Thomas stiffened a little.

The vamp paid us no mind. It rose to a half crouch, plucked blueberries with stiletto claws, and deposited them into the satchel.

We drew even with it.

The bloodsucker pulled a berry off, and it popped between its claws. A young female voice came from its mouth. “Damn it.”

The vamp shook its hand, flinging purple juice off, and plucked another berry.

Plop.

“Damn it.”

We rode on. Her voice faded behind us.

“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it…”

“Why use vampires?” Thomas asked quietly.

“Dexterity training. Blueberries are a good measure of control. Squeeze too hard, and they burst. Most good navigators never stop practicing. I know a Master of the Dead who knits elaborate lace socks for practice. Two vamps at a time, perfectly in sync.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows.

Another vamp emerged from the berry bushes, looking roughly the same as the one before, except its sunblock was Pepto-Bismol-pink. It set about gathering the berries, but instead of plucking them by claw, this vamp had a pair of tiny manicure scissors, and it snipped the berries one by one.

The team in the corn glided next to us, moving through the stalks just out of our view. Our lovely escort doing their best to stay hidden.

The People’s base in Atlanta, headquartered in the Casino, was an all-purpose installation, equal parts research institute, vampire stable, and money machine. Wilmington’s Farm was a different beast. It was almost entirely a military installation, conceived by my father as a training facility where promising journeymen were sent to hone their control and learn tactics and team combat. It was the People’s boot camp and a convenient reserve of the undead close enough to Atlanta to get there within a day but too far for me to exert any influence over them. They raised livestock and grew feed, and they trained future and current Masters of the Dead.

Unlike a lot of other People offices, the Farm didn’t need to interact with the general public to make its money. When the People had fractured into individual groups following my father’s exile, the Farm remained exactly as it was. Instead of being subsidized by the Golden Legion, it had simply started charging the individual People offices for its training. My father had given Barrett Shaw a job, and as far as Barrett was concerned, he would keep doing it until my father told him to stop.

I had to admire the setup. The Farm took up almost all of Eagles Island, about 3,100 acres of it sitting pretty just west of Wilmington, sectioned off from the rest of the state by the Cape Fear River in the east and the Brunswick River to the west. Pre-Shift, there was a three-point road junction in the northeast corner of the island. The junction was still there, although it was now called Vampire Highway. The half-acre buffer zone around Vampire Highway was state land. The rest was the private property of the Farm.

How they put that deal into place, I had no idea. Both the Memorial and the Isabel Holmes Bridges were out, although the Isabel Holmes Bridge was being rebuilt, and stopping ferries from running would be child’s play for a man with Barrett’s resources. The bridge over Brunswick River was a narrow, arched affair that I could hold by my lonesome against a small army. Parking a team of three undead there meant nobody would cross.

With one command, Barrett Shaw could secure the island and cut Wilmington off from the west side of the state, squeezing the city between his vampires and the Atlantic coast. The lands north of the city had largely devolved into dense wilderness, interrupted by occasional farms. Evacuating would be painful and futile.

The People must’ve convinced the city leadership or the state that they would defend Wilmington against potential threats. The wolf hid its teeth, so they let it guard their flock.

The fields ended, and a massive facility came into view: a collection of buildings that could’ve housed a small university complete with a large stadium to the right. No walls. No guards. The Farm didn’t need them.

If I closed my eyes, the entire place would glow with red. They had at least 300 vampires. No, more. Another clump of red sparks shimmered deeper south. The Farm was doing quite well for itself.

A small building was at the very front of the campus, facing the road. A big sign marked it as the Visitor Center. Huge square windows, a glass door, and not a single metal bar in sight. Ahh, the privilege of stabling a horde of undead.

“This is far enough,” I told Thomas. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

“If you go in, will you come out?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

“You don’t have to. I know you’re worried about your family.”

“Like you said, your husband will take care of them.” Thomas nudged his horse forward. “I will wait.”

“Suit yourself.”

We dismounted, secured our mounts, I took the will-o’-wisp in the cage out of the saddlebag, and we went inside. The front room could’ve belonged to an upscale hotel or the reception area of a thriving corporation. The walls were pale marble somewhere on the border of beige and gray, with barely visible darker streaks. A long counter sectioned off the far wall, which was clad in American black granite. Paul had wanted to use a similar stone for our larger living room fireplace, which I vetoed because I hated it. A grouping of sofas and padded chairs occupied most of the floor. The furniture was tasteful, leather, with square angles and wide proportions.

A young woman smiled at us from behind the counter. She wore a blue-green silk blouse with draped sleeves. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a bun and her makeup was minimal, just a touch of pale lipstick and a hint of eyeliner tracing her hooded eyes.

“How may I help you?”

When outgunned, open with a brick to the face.

“I’m here to discuss a possible breach of the Unnatural Infection Victim Protection Act by a member of this facility. Also, Claudia Ozburn asked me to drop off this will-o’-wisp for Mr. Shaw, since I was in the neighborhood.”

The woman’s smile gained a slightly plastic quality. That’s right, I’m accusing you of breaching federal law, and the Knight-Protector knows about it. Happy Monday.

“Please take a seat. Would you like some refreshments?”

“No, thank you.”

Thomas and I sat. I put the cage with the will-o’-wisp onto the coffee table. The woman disappeared through a door behind the counter.

Thomas was clearly itching to ask some questions, but instead he just sat quietly. Dream client, although I would’ve preferred that none of this had happened and his son was home instead.

The undead signatures were buzzing about in my head like a swarm of angry hornets. Ugh. The urge to reach out and squish a couple was almost too much.

My first meeting with my father was public and bloody. Despite the somewhat impactful nature of it, very few members of the People outside of my father’s inner circle have ever seen me or met me in person. Most of those who witnessed me enter the Swan Palace were dead, killed in dangerous assignments and in the two battles of Atlanta.

All of this was very much by design. My father hadn’t wanted me to become a viable alternative to his rule. He had much preferred that I remained a whispered rumor, a long-lost heir who could but probably didn’t exist. The moment the Swan Palace visitors had seen me shatter his blood ward, their days became numbered. Only a handful of them had survived, and all of them made it a point to put as much distance between me and themselves as possible and kept their mouths shut.

All that meant was that I could enjoy relative anonymity. I just had to make sure I didn’t do anything to announce that I was Roland’s daughter.

The vampiric sparks crawled across my mind, stabbing me with their light. Easier said than done.

A man entered through the side door. Average height, average build, dark hair, deep bronze skin, somewhere around thirty. Neat, fit, almost military bearing, clean-shaven. He wore a black jumpsuit loose enough to allow full freedom of movement but tailored enough to double as a military uniform of sorts. The top quarter of his left sleeve, covering the shoulder all the way to mid-biceps, was bright red.

The color had to be an indication of rank. What happened if they went up or down in rank? Did they get a new uniform, or did they rip their sleeve off and replace it?

I squinted. Oh, Velcro. Well, that was a flex. Velcro cost a pretty penny.

“Where is Malone?” the woman asked him softly.

The man shook his head and approached me. Uh-oh. They should’ve passed me off to HR or the legal department. Personnel in both of those would likely wear suits. The People took their corporate image seriously.

“Director Shaw would like a word,” he said.

Straight to the top. Woo.

I picked up the will-o’-wisp, smiled at Thomas, and followed the man out through the front door.

The Farm really did resemble a college campus. It felt planned, a complete microcosm, unnaturally clean and carefully managed, with buildings designed by the same team of architects and landscaping arranged with a definite vision in mind. We passed a bookstore and a small café with outdoor seating on the patio, which was mostly empty, except for two groups of patrons. A couple of people wore business clothes. Everyone else had some red on their jumpsuits.

A five-navigator team jogged down the street past us, wearing the same jumpsuits as my escort, each with a narrow yellow stripe on their shoulder. Their vampires loped next to them, keeping a jerky pace.

All five navigators were young, the oldest in their mid-twenties. All five had bloodshot eyes, and the bags under their eyes were big enough to carry my weekly haul from the produce market. The last man, a lanky, glassy-eyed redhead, stumbled. His vampire’s eyes flashed bright red. The glow dimmed back to smoldering red-amber, but that flash meant his control was hanging by a hair.

My escort stopped and stepped into the street. The team crashed to a tired stop in front of him. The navigators turned to face him and went to parade rest, their undead sitting on their haunches in front of them.

“Unit ID,” he said.

“Yellow Team 2,” the leading navigator said. She was short and slight, with long, dark hair put away into a bun, brown eyes, and a wary expression as if she expected a sudden punch to knock her to the ground.

“Name?”

“Journeyman Zhou.”

My guide walked down the line and stopped in front of the last man.

“Name?”

“Journeyman Edwards.”

“Do you need to tap, Journeyman Edwards?” He said it in a quiet, deliberate way that seemed familiar somehow.

Edwards blanched. “No, sir.”

“Infinity,” my guide ordered.

The team simultaneously stepped to the side, widening the distance between themselves.

Edwards swallowed. His vampire circled him, weaving between him and the next navigator like a dog dodging poles at an agility competition.

Right, left, right…

Eye flash.

…Left, right…

The vamp’s eyes went bright red, the light mad and fueled by bloodlust. Edwards cried out. The undead lunged at the nearest navigator, lightning-fast, and froze, poised on its hind legs, wicked claws spread an inch from the young woman’s throat. She shook like a leaf but didn’t break formation.

The vamp folded itself back into a crouch with almost mechanical precision, sitting on its haunches. Its mouth opened, and my guide and the vampire spoke in the same voice in stereo.

“Team Leader Zhou, in your opinion, should Journeyman Edwards have tapped?”

Zhou closed her eyes for a long moment and opened them. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you order Journeyman Edwards to tap?”

“No, sir.”

“Why?”

“Journeyman Edwards has tapped twice already. Tapping a third time would get him kicked from the program, sir.”

“So, you prioritized the feelings of your team member over everyone’s safety.”

It didn’t sound like a question.

“Yes, sir,” Zhou confirmed.

“Journeyman Zhou, take your team to your superior and inform them that I’ve relieved you of your post. Journeyman Edwards, report to the personnel office for out-processing.”

“Please,” Edwards said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

My guide just looked at him.

Edwards turned around, his fists clenched, and marched back the way he came from.

“Dismissed.”

The team executed a turn, formed back into a line, and jogged to the right, disappearing between the buildings. Edwards’ vampire remained, still sitting on its haunches.

“Harsh,” I said.

“But necessary.” This time only the guide’s mouth moved. He must’ve decided the undead speaker had served its purpose.

He invited me to keep walking with a small gesture. We resumed walking toward the tall arena looming against the evening sky. Edwards’ vampire trailed us, perfectly in sync with our pace, like a loyal, well-trained dog. This man wasn’t just a Master of the Dead. He was good enough to head his own office.

“Before a navigator can move to tactics, they must prove their ability to control the undead. We deprive them of sleep, give them contradictory orders, force them to perform nonsensical, menial tasks, all of it designed to simulate the stress of real warfare. They are told they have three chances to tap, which is to admit that they’re unable to maintain navigation and ask for a break.”

“And if they tap three times?”

“They leave the program, but they can seek readmission in 6 months.”

He kept his voice casual and low, nothing suspicious, but unless someone was really close to us, they wouldn’t be able to make out the words.

“Tapping is a test in itself,” I said.

A navigator who lost control of their vampire in a population center would cause catastrophic casualties. Even if they notified the People immediately, acquiring control required close physical proximity. There would still be a slaughter.

My guide nodded. “One must experience being on the verge of losing control at least once and demonstrate sound judgement even when faced with serious consequences. Journeyman Edwards will not be returning to the Farm.”

The arena was directly in front of us, silhouetted against the glowing sky like a foreboding citadel.

“After all, not everyone is fit to pilot utukku-dami.”

Blood demon. Words from an ancient language. When infused with magic, they became words of power, but when spoken like this, casually, they resurrected echoes of the Kingdom of Shinar.

Alarm shot through me. I kept walking, keeping my breathing even, and glanced at him again. Calm, brown eyes, smart, observant. I identified the similarities now, the vaguely familiar proportions of his face, the line of his eyebrows, the cheekbones, the brown skin with an almost golden undertone, and the voice. Especially the voice.

“Sharrim…You are young,” a deeper voice murmured from my memories with the same steady cadence. “You have the power but lack control. Think of all the things he could teach you. Think of the secrets that would open to you.”

My father was born in our pre-history. Before our Shift, there had been another, the one that had ended the previous magic age and ushered in our technological era. The tech-Shift drove my father into hibernation, and he wasn’t the only one who’d gone to sleep. He’d chosen a very short list of people he trusted to support him in the new age. One of them was a quiet man who appeared to be in his sixties. He came from an old family. His father had served my father, as had his father, and his father, and on and on. His real name was Jushur, but my father called him Akku. The Owl.

Quiet, unassuming, always pretending to be less than he was, Jushur went by many different names. He’d moved through the People’s ranks, never drawing attention to himself, excelling at being overlooked and dismissed. He was my father’s secret eyes and ears. He’d served the most troublesome of Legati of the Golden Legion and had kept an eye on Hugh d’Ambray during his tenure as Warlord. When trouble brewed somewhere, Jushur would already be there, on the sidelines, anticipating the crisis and taking subtle steps to deal with it. He had six children, some born in the old age and others in ours, and all of them were just like him, fanatically loyal to my father and his bloodline.

I had discounted him even though he’d spoken to me directly three times. After my father had decided he did want to speak to me again—it took him almost three years—he finally told me about Jushur one night over beer and doughnuts, while he was rearranging the constellations in the sky of his realm to be more aesthetically pleasing.

The man walking next to me looked like a younger version of Jushur and sounded just like him. And he wanted me to know who he was.

Well, wasn’t that just peachy.

Ahead the gates of the arena stood wide open. As we came closer, a sheepish-looking navigator team with green stripes on their jumpsuits led a brown cow out of it. A big, white paw print marked the cow’s butt. Weird way to tag the People’s cows, but okay.

We walked through the gates. The floors of ancient arenas were made of wood and covered with a layer of sand to absorb the blood. This arena was stone, no padding. Every drop of blood was a precious resource.

Two men waited on the arena floor, near the gates. Behind them three vampires crouched in a row, still like statues.

The first man, on my right, was young, in his twenties, tall and thin. Everything about him seemed slightly too long: his dark hair, his nose, his chin. A single red stripe marked the shoulder of his jumpsuit. I’d cracked the code by this point. Red meant cadre, permanent staff of the Farm, and the more red you had, the higher your rank. This guy was pretty low in the chain of command.

A man like Barrett Shaw would have either known or suspected that one of his journeymen was up to no good. There was no reason for this guy to be in the arena if he was just some random navigator.

Hello, Onyx. We finally meet. I’ve come to chat about a child you sold like livestock.

The other man had two red shoulders on his jumpsuit. He was also tall, but unlike Onyx, who was thin to the point of looking fragile, this man was muscled like a decathlon athlete, lean and hard. An all-purpose build, equally fast, strong, and flexible, and the way he stood told me he had good balance. Onyx I could fold in half like paper. That man would dodge a fast punch and come back swinging.

He was probably close to forty, but it was hard to tell. His hair, a deep brown, umber shade, was cut just long enough to style, although he hadn’t bothered. No gray yet. He had probably started his day clean-shaven this morning, but now a five o’clock shadow darkened his square jaw. A tall forehead, prominent nose, full mouth, and dark green eyes under thick eyebrows. Not a conventionally handsome face, but a powerful one. The kind of face that would make you rethink your strategy.

The green eyes took my measure. He had an unsettling, direct gaze, as if he were looking at something specific inside you. Barrett Shaw. In the flesh.

I stared back, trying to look blank. Look all you want. There is nothing to see here.

Jushur’s son stood to the side at parade rest, his undead sitting by him.

Barrett smiled. It was a pleasant, affable smile. Perfectly cordial. “Welcome to the Farm.”

“Thank you.”

One of the vampires sprinted at full speed toward me, its eyes red.

Cute.

The undead slid to a stop a couple of inches from my feet. I held out the will-o’-wisp cage and nodded at Barrett.

“Your parcel. Claudia Ozburn says hello.”

“She always sends the nicest things.”

The undead took the cage from me and carried it off.

Barrett Shaw was still smiling.

I should’ve flinched when the undead ran at me. Most people would’ve flinched. I was positioning myself as either a merc or a knight of the Order. Vampire removal wasn’t something mercs did often, and a knight would’ve called him on his bullshit or taken a defensive stance. Either way, I should’ve reacted.

Even if I had tried to fake a reaction, it would’ve been obvious. My acting skills were severely lacking.

Barrett wasn’t speaking. Ryan Kelly, a Master of the Dead from Atlanta, once referred to him as Gator Mouth, and now I knew why. That warm smile was a tornado siren, announcing a whirlwind of destruction coming my way. This had become about me, and I needed to deflect his attention and get access to Onyx, because he was our only link to Darin. I had to explain why I hadn’t freaked out.

“How do you like it? The Farm? Did Rimush give you a tour on the way here?”

An idea popped into my brain. It was a terrible idea, but it was the only one I could think of. “It’s very organized. Even the cohorts are color-coded.”

Despite the name, the Golden Legion didn’t have cohorts, and neither did the People. There was only one military force accustomed to dealing with vampires that used the term cohorts.

Take the bait, take the bait, take the bait…

Barrett’s affable expression stayed pleasant. “You’re a long way from Kentucky.”

I blinked a couple of times to indicate surprise. Kate the Thespian. Hand me my Oscar. “Well, that didn’t take long. The Preceptor and I parted ways.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve got a problem with authority.”

Hugh’s Iron Dogs used to be my father’s counterpoint to the Golden Legion. His left and right arms, trained to kill each other if necessary. Hugh was now an independent operator, and if Barrett checked with him—which was highly unlikely—he would cover for me. As soon as I got home, I would have to call Hugh and let him know. He’d get a good laugh out of this, the jackass.

The intensity of Barrett’s smile eased a little. I had given him a believable story. A former Iron Dog would be a highly trained, skilled, disciplined killing machine. If Claudia became aware of one operating independently, it would make sense that she would try to recruit her. It would also make sense that after walking away from Hugh D’Ambray, said Iron Dog wouldn’t be eager to take orders again, so Claudia would take it easy, by talking her into running an errand or two. Mystery solved.

“Ms. Ozburn is marking her territory,” Barrett said, as if to himself. “Very well. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for a kidnapped child. Onyx brokered the sale.”

Barrett nodded and looked at the journeyman. “Did you hear that?”

Onyx gave me a defiant stare. “I didn’t do it.”

“Jace gave you up,” I said.

“He’s lying.”

I turned to Barrett and spread my arms.

Barrett rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And this is where you’ve fucked up. You should’ve asked who Jace was. Because there is no reason for you to associate with a mid-level Red Horn boss. But you didn’t. Because we both know you’ve been doing some shady shit. Malone warned you about it, didn’t he?”

Onyx opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” Barrett said. All the pleasantness evaporated from his face in an instant.

Onyx swallowed.

“You brought your shady shit here. To my island. Now there is a mercenary asking questions and the Order is aware of it. You have a fucking problem. How are you going to fix it?”

Panic sparked in Onyx’s eyes. The older of the two remaining vampires charged me.

The world slowed to an underwater crawl. The vampire was coming for me, mouth gaping, fangs ready to bite and tear, driven by Onyx’s rattled mind.

If I killed it, the backlash would fry Onyx, tuning him into a vegetable. He wasn’t taking any precautions, and a sudden ending of the connection between the navigator and the undead destroyed the navigator’s ego.

If I took control of the vampire, I might as well have just cut my vein and started making blood armor right there. Not only would I not save Darin, but I could kiss any hope of a calm life in Wilmington goodbye.

The vamp was almost on me.

I had one chance at this. No do-overs.

I pulled Sarrat from its sheath, grasped the undead’s mind with my magic, ripped it away from Onyx, and let it go, all in the same fraction of a second. The journeyman had no time to react. The vamp’s eyes flared bright red. It was already running, and I was directly in front of it, a convenient target with a heartbeat. It leaped, claws spread for the kill.

I sliced across its forelimbs, spun out of the way, and slashed at its neck, cleaving the head from the body in a single blow.

The beheaded body ran a few more steps and crumpled onto the stone. The head rolled across the arena’s floor.

Onyx stared at the dead vampire, trying to process what had happened. He wasn’t sure who took the vampire away from him. Both Rimush and Barrett were Masters of the Dead. It could’ve been either of them, and now he didn’t know how to react.

I breathed in, slow and deep. If Barrett caught me, there would be hell to pay.

Barrett wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at his journeyman, and his eyes shivered with rage. It had worked. He’d thought Onyx had bailed, abandoning the undead in the middle of the attack, because he got scared that I’d kill it.

“I don’t mind cleaning house,” I said into the silence. “But I have to charge.”

Onyx opened his mouth.

I flicked the blood off my blade. “Who did you sell Darin to?”

He took a step back.

I started toward him. Barrett said nothing. Good for me.

“You’ve broken the First Covenant. The People will not protect you. Tell me where the boy is, and I will spare your life.”

“I didn’t,” Onyx stammered. “I didn’t make him into a vampire. He’s alive.”

“The First Covenant doesn’t just cover making people undead against their will. The First Covenant forbids slavery in all its forms. ‘There must be free will.’ That is the first and most sacred pledge.”

The Shinar had been mostly a free kingdom, but it was also a cosmopolitan place where many travelers did business. My great grandfather had outlawed slavery among Shinar citizens, and yet there had been thousands of slaves in the kingdom, brought there by foreign dignitaries and traders. When my father woke up post-Shift, codifying freedom of choice was his first decision and the first law he passed onto the People.

Roland had wanted to impose his will on everyone, but he had also wanted everyone to obey him because they loved him and agreed with him.

I reached striking distance. Onyx stayed where he was, glancing at me, then at Barrett, then at me again.

“You put in a custom order for a child to be stolen off the street and you sold him. That is slavery. You’re a human trafficker. Scum.”

I raised Sarrat and aimed it at his throat. The blade smoked, feeding on the vampire blood still coating the saber. Thin tendrils of white vapor slid off the pale metal.

“I’m not a patient woman. Who bought the boy?”

Onyx sucked in a lungful of air. “It doesn’t matter anyway. He’ll kill you. His name is Aaron.”

“Last name?”

“Just Aaron. He’s a god.”

Oh goodie. “Where can I find this god named Aaron?”

“Emerald Wave.”

“And what is that?”

Onyx licked his lips nervously. “A cruise ship. It sank off the north end of Figure Eight Island. That’s his base.”

“Why did he want Darin? Why that particular kid?”

“He buys anyone who can stay under water longer than normal. That’s all I know.”

“How long has Aaron been buying kids like Darin?”

“For three years.”

Gods appeared during flares, extremely potent magic waves that came every 7 years, but they also showed up during random magical events. Three years ago there was a Night of the Shining Seas that coincided with or triggered a particular strong magic wave. And it had an especially strong effect on marine creatures. People called it the Night of the Shining Seas, because the oceans had glowed so bright, it looked like an inverted sunrise.

I slid Sarrat back into its sheath and took three steps back.

Onyx looked at Barrett. “I can explain.”

Barrett smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“I owe money to Lunar Crown,” Onyx stammered.

Wilmington’s largest casino. People did screwed-up shit for three reasons: love, revenge, or greed. Greed far outnumbered the other two.

“I just needed to pay off the debt, that’s all…”

Barrett gave him an encouraging nod.

“I never did anything…”

The remaining undead still sitting on the sidelines moved so fast, he might as well have teleported. A dark blur shot past Onyx. The journeyman stopped in mid-word. His mouth hung open in a slack O.

His stomach split in half and his intestines fell onto the stone by his feet.

The journeyman gagged. Blood gushed from his mouth. He choked on it, coughed, sending a cloud of bloody spray out, and collapsed.

Barrett’s eyes turned distant the way they did when a Master of Dead spoke through a faraway undead. “Blue Team 7, your feed is in the arena.”

He had piloted another vampire through this entire conversation. Masters of the Dead who could control two undead at the same time were rare. Just that ability alone had guaranteed a ticket to the Golden Legion when my father was in power.

Onyx made a gurgling noise.

“What’s your name?” Barrett asked me.

“Kate.”

“A word of advice, Kate. Don’t come to my island again.”

For a second, I thought of doing things the way my aunt would’ve done them. And then I remembered why we had moved to Wilmington.

“I’ll do my best,” I told him, turned, and walked toward the gates.

Rimush fell in step with me. As we exited the arena, 5 undead galloped through the gates, streaming past us to the bloody body on the floor.