Chapter 8

“Hey,” said one of the young Wardens outside the ostentatiatory. “Hey, Harry. What’s up, man?”

I owed Carlos Ramirez more than a quick shake of my head, but I couldn’t give it to him. I didn’t want to talk at all, because I wasn’t sure I could keep it from turning into furious shouting. I heard Molly turn quickly to him and say, “Not now. There’s a problem, we’re working on it, and I promise to call you if there’s something you can do to help.”

“But—” he said, taking a few steps after us.

“Warden,” Luccio said firmly. “Remain at your post.”

He must have obeyed. We kept on walking and he didn’t follow us.

Luccio marched me down a tunnel I had never seen before, took a few turns into the darker hallways lit only by light she called to hang in the air around us, and then opened a door into a warm, firelit room. It looked like a den. There was a large fireplace crackling, several candles lit, and a lot of comfortable furniture scattered around in solitary nooks and in groups, so that one could have as much or as little conversational company as one wished. There was also a bar. A very large, very well-stocked bar.

“Oh,” Molly said, as she came in behind me. “Cozy.”

Anastasia let go of my arm and marched straight to the bar. She got down a bottle of black glass and poured amber fluid into three shot glasses. She brought them to a nearby table, gestured for us to sit, and then put all three glasses in the middle of the table, leaving it to us to choose which we would drink—two centuries of Warden-level paranoia tends to sink into your bones.

I sat down at the table. I took a glass and downed it. The liquor left a scouring heat in my chest as it went down, and I wanted it.

Anastasia took hers and made it vanish without twitching an eye-lash. Molly looked at her glass, took a polite sip, and said, to the other woman’s amused glance, “Somebody should be the designated . . . not driver, but sober person.”

“Harry,” Anastasia said, turning to me. “What you did today was dangerous.”

“I could take the bitch,” I growled.

“There’s no way for us to know how old Arianna is,” she contradicted, “because humanity hasn’t had a written language for that long. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I pushed my empty glass away with my fingers and said, “I could take the prehistoric bitch.” I looked around the room for a moment and said, “What is this place?”

Anastasia leaned back in her chair and spread her hands, palms up. “Welcome to the Worry Room.”

“Worry Room, huh.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Didn’t you see the bar?”

Molly giggled, and suppressed it. “Sorry.”

Anastasia’s voice turned faintly ironic. “It’s a place where we crusty old Wardens can go when we’re sick of the softhearted wizards who are so lily-livered that they want us to permit wayward children with enough talent to go warlock to live instead of executing them. Like your apprentice, here. I guarantee you some drinks were poured in this room and bitter words said about how we would regret it after her trial.”

I grunted. “Were you pouring, drinking, or talking?”

She shrugged. “If not for her, then for plenty of others. I was here when Morgan drank himself into a stupor after your trial, Harry.”

“No wonder it feels so cozy.”

She smiled tightly. “It’s likely the most private and secure room in the complex.”

“Paranoia Central is only likely free of spies? You guys are getting sloppy.”

“Dammit, Harry.” Luccio shook her head. “You’ve done the Warden job for a while. Or most of it. You still think that the Wardens never have a reason for acting as . . . decisively as they sometimes do?”

I sighed. Life is never simple. I had railed against the Wardens for years for killing children, young men and women who had gone warlock, lost control of their magical talents and their minds by indulging in black magic. Then I had seen the results of a few warlocks on a spree. They were ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly. “You’ve got good reason,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Doesn’t make it right.”

“Not everyone is so far over the edge they can’t come back,” Molly added softly. “Sometimes people just . . . just get lost. They just need someone to show them how to come back.”

“Yes. And in the time it takes to make that distinction, a lot of innocent people have died, Miss Carpenter,” Anastasia said, her tone frank and gentle. “The human population has expanded with unthinkable speed in the past two centuries. More and more wizard-level talents are being born. Every time one of them goes warlock, we have less and less time to confront the problem—and nowhere near enough help.”

“Prevention,” I said. “Find them early and they don’t go warlock.”

“Resources.” She sighed. We’d had this talk before. “If the entire Council did nothing but Warden duty, full-time, it still wouldn’t be enough.”

“Education,” I said. “Use the Paranet. Get the smaller talents to help identify the gifted.”

She smiled at me and said, “I’m still building support for it. It’s a good idea, Harry. It might even work. The problem is making some of the others in the Council understand it. They see it only as a security risk, especially after Peabody. But it’s a good idea. Its time will come—eventually.”

I grunted. I was quiet for a moment, and then I said, “Familiar argument, huh? Give me some routine. Calm me down. Is that it?”

“Anxiety, anger, and agitation cloud the mind. That’s why the Worry Room is here.” She smiled faintly. “I’m well aware of what it looks like when a wizard has been pushed to the brink.” She poured the two of us another shot and said, “So why don’t you tell me how the prehistoric bitch did it to you.”

I took the glass without drinking. “She took a little girl.”

“Vampires take a lot of children,” Anastasia said. “What makes this one so special?”

I said nothing. Silence reigned. I looked up and met her eyes.

Anastasia and I had seen each other for a while. She knew me better than most. She studied my face for maybe half a second, and then took a deep breath. “Harry,” she said, “don’t say anything about this to anyone you don’t trust with your life.”

I gave her a small, bitter smile and nodded. Knowledge was power. Anyone who knew Maggie was my daughter might use her for leverage against me. Anastasia wouldn’t, not for any reason—but others on the White Council would. Oh, they’d probably use softer gloves than Arianna had: I could just see being offered money to help support Maggie, give her access to nice schools, a privileged upbringing, and everything a father could want for his child—so that the offer could be withdrawn if I didn’t play ball. After all, these were the good guys.

But it could get worse. I literally shuddered to think what Nicodemus might do with the knowledge—or, joyous thought, Mab. (Yes, that Mab. Take it from me: The stories don’t do her justice.) I’d met some other real gems out there as well, and none of them had reasons to like me. On the other hand, I thought with a shiver, Arianna was the devil I didn’t know.

Regardless, it wouldn’t be helpful to let knowledge of Maggie become general. I had never planned on making an open case of her blood relation to me before the Council. It wouldn’t win sympathy—only interest. The fewer people who knew I was Maggie’s father, the safer she would be.

And yes.

I am aware of the irony.

I kept looking at Anastasia and asked, “Can I count on you?”

She put her hands flat on the table and looked down at them for a slow five count, considering her words before she answered. “I am not what I was in a fight, Harry.”

I ground my teeth. “So you’ll sit here where it’s safe.”

For the first time since I’d arrived in Edinburgh, Anastasia Luccio’s dark eyes flashed with real anger, and I suddenly remembered that this woman had been the captain of the Wardens for decades. The air between us grew literally physically hotter. “Think carefully,” she said in a very quiet voice, “before you call me a coward.”