Ilona Andrews - On the Edge

An older woman at the jewelry counter nearly dislocated her neck, trying to get his attention. A housewife fussing over a little girl in a cart looked up as they maneuvered around her and simply stared, openmouthed. A woman at the clothes rack raised an eyebrow, tugged her low-cut white blouse lower, and followed them with a determined look on her face.

Just what they needed, more attention. Rose took a sharp turn into the aisle running between the shoe section and sporting goods and glanced behind her. Six women, some discreetly, some openly, followed them. It irritated her to no end.

“I should’ve made you wear a hockey mask,” she murmured.

Declan glanced back and unleashed a dazzling smile. One of the younger girls squeaked like an unoiled door. Somebody mumbled, “Oh, Lord.”

“Stop that!” Rose snapped.

“Stop what?” He turned to her, and she found herself on the receiving end of that same smile. She could’ve stared at him for a year and never gotten tired. “That,” she said firmly. “Quit it.”

“Is it upsetting you?”

The adoring crowd seemed to have grown. “You’re going to cause a riot.”

“You think so? I’ve never created a riot before. I did cause a brawl at the last formal. A large number of young women there actually arrived with the expectation of seducing me into matrimony, and a couple of their mothers came to blows. It was hilari—I mean, dreadful. Simply dreadful.”

“Yes.” Rose sighed in mock pity. “It’s awful to be rich and mind-bogglingly handsome and have women fawn over you. My heart bleeds for you. Poor dear, how do you manage?”

“So you do think I’m handsome.”

She actually stopped for a second. “Declan, I’m not blind.”

He looked disgustingly smug.

“Oh, get over yourself.”

“Not just handsome but mind-bogglingly handsome,” he said.

He’d never let her live it down. She spun about and fixed their audience with a look of withering scorn. “Ladies, have some decency.”

The crowd scattered.

“And now you’re feeling possessive.”

“I think I liked you better as an icy blueblood.” She shook her head and dropped another set of blue candles into the shopping cart.

ROSE surveyed Declan’s preparations from the porch.

A Sand-n-Sun inflatable pool, twelve feet across and about three feet high, sat in the middle of the lawn. The water shone under the afternoon sun. To the left, Jack sat in a pine tree, staring at the water with a wistful look on his face. Georgie stayed inside. He would never refuse to come out—he was too polite for that—so he quietly hid in the attic, probably hoping they would forget about him.

The screen door swung open, and Grandmother came to join her. Éléonore looked better. Her hair was teased back up, and she had gained a bit of spring in her step. She stared at the lawn.

“What is that boy doing?”

“According to him, he’s implementing his plan to have me. With all my thorns.”

Grandma blinked. “He said that?”

“He did.” And she was a stupid fool, because every time she thought about it, her heart beat faster.

“He’s trying hard, no?”

Rose nodded.

Declan had bought a measuring tape and very carefully measured the distance from the pool, marking the points with white paint. Next he cut several sticks about two feet tall, sharpened both ends, and hammered the sticks into the marked points. He impaled the candles onto the sticks and then strung white clothesline between them. From the height of the porch, the clothesline formed a complex geometrical figure, a seven-pointed star enclosed in a circle, with the pool in the exact center.

“Well, it’s a sigil,” Grandmother said.

Rose had tried to study sigils before. Mystical signs, sigils were most often used in summoning and alchemy. Some of them signified true names of magical beings, and some channeled magic into patterns. It was boring as all get-out, but she’d forced herself to learn the basics.

“Looks like he used a single piece of string,” Grandmother murmured.

Rose found the knot and tried to follow the clothesline with her gaze. The stretches of string crossed, under, over, under again, and came back to the same first post. “Yes,” she said.

“Definitely a sigil,” Grandmother said.

“Grandma?”

“Mmm?”

“Did the boys tell you about Casshorn?”

Éléonore’s eyes darkened, taking on a strange, predatory aspect. “Yes. Yes, they did.”

“He’s in the Wood,” Rose said.

Magic swirled around Éléonore, dark and frightening, like black wings. “Of course,” she said evenly, her face terrible. “Where else would he be? Thinks he can hide in our back-yard, does he? We’ll find him. And once we do, I’ll bring the power of all of East Laporte onto his head for daring to touch my grandchildren. I’ll see him weep bloody tears before this is over.”

Rose shivered.

Declan emerged from the driveway, carrying the grill from the truck. He set it at the starting point of the star, dumped some charcoal into it, and brought over the large metal bowl filled with powdered herbs.

There were so many things they didn’t know yet. And Declan was their key to finding them out.

“He has half of my supply room in that bowl,” Grandmother said. Rose snuck a peek at her—the dark magic was gone, as if it had never been.

In the yard, Declan drenched the charcoal in lighter fluid and lit it. The flames surged up, licking the briquettes.

“Do you think he can help Georgie?” Rose asked.

“We’ve tried everything else. He can’t hurt, I suppose.” Grandma sighed. “But if you don’t want to leave with him, you should stop helping him.”

“I’m doing it for Georgie.”

“I know, child. I know.” Éléonore petted her shoulder and went inside.

Rose hopped off the porch and approached Declan. He spread the coals with an oversized fork and glanced at her through the cloud of sparks.

“Are you planning to summon a demon?” she asked.

He grimaced. “No.”

“Just checking.”

He threw a handful of herbs into the fire.

“But you are summoning something?”

“An image. I’m also binding it to the water.” He tossed another handful into the fire. The greedy flames pounced on the herbs, sending aromatic smoke into the air. “Problem is, I have to reach across the boundary into the Weird. That will take a fair amount of magic. I’ll need a sacrifice. Just not sure if what I have is enough.”

The first hesitant traces of magic swirled along the clothesline. The water in the pool darkened.

Declan began to intone something in a steady monotone. She didn’t recognize the language, but she felt his effort and the roiling current of magic vibrating within the sigil.

He chanted for almost a half hour, his face quaking with the strain. She sank next to him on the grass. The sound of his voice lulled her into a kind of trance. Shrouded in clouds of fragrant smoke, he seemed otherworldly, like some arcane sorcerer from a fairy tale.

Then Declan clasped his hair in a tight grip, drew the knife, and sliced it off.

“Aaaa!” It happened so fast, all Rose could do was gasp.

“What?” He threw the hair into the flames.

“Your hair!”

“That’s why I grew it,” he said, glancing at the water in the pool. “Power reserve. Three years’ worth. But it’s not enough.”

Rose stood up, gathered her hair, and held out her hand.

He handed her the knife. She severed her hair with one sharp stroke and threw it in the fire.

“Most women would rather die than cut their hair,” he said.

“It’s just hair,” she said. “I would sacrifice a lot more to keep Georgie alive.”