I took a deep breath. Well, it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe an umi’atsu bond could cut through demonic magical distortion.

“Mychael?”

Static. And no Mychael.

Crap.

Piaras had gone to Ronan Cayle’s tower for his morning voice lesson. I guess his way of dealing with everything that had happened last night was to do what he was supposed to be doing this morning.

The kid was doing his job; I was doing mine. I had to find the Scythe of Nen, which meant I had to find a virgin. A demon would know instinctively whether Piaras was a virgin or not. I wasn’t a demon, so I wasn’t sure. I was actually going to have to ask the kid for confirmation.

Now I’d really rather fight demons with Mychael.

Ronan Cayle’s tower was only about a quarter mile from the citadel walls. I guess when you trained all of the Guardians’ top spellsingers it paid to be close to your best source of income. Uncle Ryn had often said the same thing about his home-port’s proximity to the eastern kingdom shipping lanes.

There was a pair of Guardians at the door to Ronan’s tower. Good. Even better, they let us in when Vegard asked them the first time.

I looked up through the center of the winding stair that spiraled toward infinity and hopefully the top of the tower.

Dang.

Vegard looked up with me. “Yeah, this is why I’m glad I can’t carry a tune.”

And Ronan’s spellsinging students had to haul themselves to the top in less than three minutes.

I was almost certain there was a top, even if I couldn’t see it. Ronan Cayle’s tower didn’t look that high from the outside. But I’d discovered that people weren’t the only things you couldn’t trust on Mid; you couldn’t trust your eyes, either.

There was no impatient, toe-tapping maestro waiting at the top measuring our speed, but Vegard and I hustled anyway. Time was something none of us had. When we reached the top, we weren’t the only ones in Ronan’s reception area. Vegard exchanged greeting nods with a pair of huge Guardians who I assumed were two of Piaras’s new big brothers. I was wheezing like a punctured bellows; Vegard was trying to breathe normally and still get enough air to stay conscious. I guess he didn’t want his brothers to see him winded. I didn’t give a crap and kept right on gasping. The Guardians weren’t alone. Two goblins were standing in the shadows against the wall, armed and armored in more ways than one. I recognized them. Apparently Talon also had a voice lesson this morning, as well as guards of his own, courtesy of his dad’s dark mage school buddies. It made sense to me; who better to protect Talon against Sarad Nukpana’s black magic? This pair probably knew every dirty trick in Nukpana’s book and had a few of their own. The Guardians and the goblins were keeping a wary eye on each other, but keeping their steel and spells to themselves. The boys were playing nice-for now. Unless one of them had to scratch, there shouldn’t be any fatalities.

Vegard passed his hand over a crystal set into the wall next to the door. The crystal flashed once, and after a minute or so, Ronan answered the door.

If you were a magic user, you’d heard of Maestro Ronan Cayle. The spellsinging master. The legend who only taught future legends. The maestro who turned out the finest spellsingers the Isle of Mid and the Conclave had to offer. The snappiest dresser I had ever seen.

His robes were a riot of silk and color. Red, orange, amber, gold-every color that flame could be at one point or another in its capricious existence-Ronan managed to wear them all at once and wear them well. It was nothing short of a stunning fashion achievement.

I was about to say as much when Ronan quickly held up a hand to stop me and put a warning finger to his lips. I shut up and froze, and so did Vegard.

I cautiously looked over his shoulder. Ronan’s music room was filled with a profusion of cushions and rugs and furniture carved from exotic woods all topped with more cushions, all in sumptuous, brightly colored and gilded fabrics. A Nebian pasha’s throne room would have looked drab in comparison. Piaras and Talon were there along with another pair of large and highly watchful Guardians. Everyone was standing perfectly still, and the Guardians weren’t watching Piaras. They had their eyes on something else entirely and had glowing weapons in their hands. I looked where they were looking.

Hellfire and damnation.

A knee-high, naked, yellow, potbellied demon was sprawled like a Nebian pasha on a pile of silk cushions. His eyes were closed, and his fleshy lips stretched in what looked like a contented smile on his flat and ugly face.

I’d squished his big brother yesterday.

I sucked in my breath and went for my daggers.

Ronan held up both hands. He wanted me to stay put; I wanted to move. If I was going to be a demon target, I was going to be a moving target.

An armored goblin dark mage slipped silently between the Guardians; he had an ornate and open bottle in his hands. One hand held the bottle; the other had the stopper. Tam and I had done the same thing in the Quad yesterday. I stayed put and let the mage do his work.

The little yellow demon snorted, rolled over, and started to snore.

After a hissing incantation from the goblin dark mage, the demon was doing his snoring from inside a sealed bottle.

We all started breathing again.

“I used an ancient Caesolian love song with a lullaby twist to put him out,” Ronan said with satisfaction. “He seemed to like it.”

“Looked like a bored stupor to me,” Talon muttered.

Ronan’s amber eyes fixed him with a look. “What was that?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Are you both okay?” I asked Piaras and Talon.

“Sure,” Piaras said. “It was just a little one.”

Talon shrugged and grinned. “A little ugly never hurt anyone.”

I looked at Vegard, he looked at me, and we decided not to enlighten either one of them.

“Don’t demons wear clothes?” Piaras asked, clearly grossed out.

“No demons wear clothes,” I told him.

Talon looked at the bottle and made a face. “Some demons should.”

“How did that thing get in here?” I asked Ronan. I didn’t ask what it wanted; I had a good idea. Maybe I wasn’t the only one virgin hunting.

The maestro pulled back a section of silken drapes to reveal a mirror, a big one, easily the height of the room and at least six feet wide. After what had happened last week, I would have thought Ronan would have been the last man to have a mirror anywhere near him. I was about to ask Ronan how many different kinds of insane he was, when I saw the ripples rolling just beneath the mirror’s surface. It was warded. Nothing could get through a warded mirror.

Nothing, apparently except for demons.

Dammit.

Last week, spellsingers had been kidnapped through mirrors. This week, every big mirror on the island was still warded. If one demon could get in, so could hundreds or thousands of his brothers, sisters, or whatever.

Mirrors could be used to translocate people, manifest creatures, or move objects from one place to another. Mirror mages needed a crisp, clear image to do their thing. The surface of a warded mirror reflected an undulating wave, its pattern constantly changing. Seeing someone or something step out of my reflection was one of the reasons why I owned only one mirror and it was just big enough to see my face in. Anything that popped out through that mirror would be small enough for me to stomp on.

My expression must have spoken volumes. “It’s been warded since my students were abducted last week,” Ronan assured me.

“Your mirror mage must have missed a section.” Or done a piss-poor job.

“She didn’t miss anything. After she left, I checked her work myself.”

I indicated the bottle and its snoozing contents. “And potbelly still got in.”