~ Jaxon ~

"Why'd you have to do that, Marcus?" I ask. "You know how dangerous a rumor can be, and that kid didn't deserve it."

My brother rolls his eyes.

"He was acting suspiciously. All I did was remind him where the power lies around here. And he's hardly a 'kid.' That was the elder Lovecraft brat."

The party's over, the guests gone. I'd found Marcus in the downstairs library, filching from our father's hidden stash of expensive liquor, and somehow, I'd ended up confronting him.

I guess I'm in the mood for a fight.

"Whatever. He had an invite, and as much right to be here as anyone."

I knew because I'd dug through the pile at the door and found it, and I toss the little black card at Marcus now.

"He was here as Joaquin Yorba's stand-in. Did you know that?"

Marcus laughs. "You give me too much credit, brother. I'm hardly so subtle. Besides, when I commit an act of sabotage, I'll aim for the king, not the court jester."

"Yorba's no joke," I counter, crossing my arms, "and he's hearing Aurelio's case next month. If he gets wind of this—"

"Relax." Marcus dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "You're right—Yorba knows Crafter law inside and out. He's also impartial. That's why father made sure Rel's case landed with him. Wild tales from a party won't affect his judgment. If it does, we can use it against him."

"It was reckless and unnecessary," I argue, unwilling to back down just yet. "The last thing we need right now is bad press."

Getting to his feet, Marcus walks towards me with his hands in his pockets and a dangerous smile on his lips. "We this, we that. Since when is it 'we,' Jax? And why do you care so much, anyway? Are you jealous I got to him first? I was just playing, you know. I've no desire to have my cock sucked by anyone who's got one."

He brushes past me, raises his glass of bourbon in a mocking salute, and saunters out the door.

I release my breath in a puff of frustration.

As kids, whenever we played 'Superheroes,' Marcus always wanted to be Thor. Really, though, he's more like Loki—mischievous, self-centered, and congenially traitorous. Unfortunately, he's also smart. Our parents had sent him overseas to the UK for his high-school and college years, and he'd come back with an attitude and an imitation accent, which he thought made him sound snarky and sophisticated, and which probably did. It drove me nuts.

I'm the one who's more like Thor. I can tell when Marcus is up to something, but I usually don't catch it in time, and then I'm forced to play cleanup using my own skill set, which includes brute force and an intimidating physique.

My Sign is no Mjölnir, though, but it's still weapon-like: a small, sharp, wood-working knife. I use it to carve protective amulets and figurines, mostly, though it has other uses.

When I'd seen how Marcus had homed in on his prey, I hadn't been able to stop myself from intervening. Now, of course, I'd shown Marcus my weakness—or what he'd see as weakness, anyway: my willingness to give a shit about someone else.

It was an impulse I'd managed to ignore most of my adult life—had, in fact, needed to ignore to survive.

Mercenaries who give a shit don't live long.

Deciding I need a drink of my own, I cross the room to the shelf of false books, behind which is my Dad's good booze, and reach for the hidden button that opens the compartment within.

My fingers touch it, and I freeze.

On the shelf below are two things that shouldn't be there, and one thing that—based on the presence of the others—should be there but is not. The first two are an eagle-clawed pen holder and a small gold plaque. The last is the silver pen that completes the set.

All three should be upstairs, in the Relic hall, locked and guarded; not down here on the 'public floor', where any random, drunken guest could stumble across a family treasure.

A number of thoughts flash rapidly through my mind.

Who moved it? Had Marcus noticed? Had Marcus taken it, or put it here, and if so, why?

Reflexively, I pull out my Sign and begin to play with it, as I do when agitated. Struck by an idea, I move to the middle of the room, set it on the floor, and concentrate hard on visualizing the pen before giving the knife a good spin.

Sometimes, I can use my Sign like a sort of compass to find things, answer questions, or show the way. Maybe, if I'm lucky, the Relic is still here somewhere.

The little blade spins rapidly, at first faster than I can see, but eventually it slows and then stops. Picking it up, but careful to keep it aligned in the same direction, I follow the point.

It leads me, disappointingly, to a shelf of books.

I rub a hand over the closely shaved hair on the back of my head and sigh. My magic's not the strongest, and it doesn't always work.

"Ah, what the fuck," I say, and grab the book the blade has led me to.

I let it fall open in my hands and scan the pages.

Magic is weird, and you have to be careful what you ask for, and even more careful of how you ask for it. If you don't phrase things just right, magic will find a way to mess you up. That's why, unlike the rest of my family, I usually avoid word-craft and stick to mental images. It seems counter-intuitive, but less can go wrong that way.

Still, sometimes it's easy to miss something if it's not the answer you're looking for.

I'm about to return the book to the shelf, thinking my spell didn't work, when I get such an answer. On an otherwise blank page at the back, a name is written in shining ink.

Sylas Lovecraft

From all the ugly rumors my brother had spread that night, I know it belongs to that dark-haired boy he'd tried to harass, and who had looked so innocent and disarmingly frightened as he'd run away from us.

I shoulda known better than to trust appearances.

He must've hidden in here, seen the pen, and taken it—maybe thinking to get back at Marcus, or something. Why he'd have written his goddamned name in a book like a flaming 'It was me!' is beyond my ability to guess. Maybe he's unhinged, or full of himself. Who knows.

All I know is I've got to find him and get that Relic back before anyone else notices it's gone.

✧ ✧ ✧

Tracking down his residence is easy enough. I park my Wrangler on the street at the edge of a surprisingly run-down neighborhood.

I'd thought the Lovecrafts were better off than this.

Locating the address, I pick the lock with quick efficiency (it's nearly five in the morning, and breaking and entering seems more polite than ringing the bell) and let myself in. Then I realize that the place isn't even a house: it's a bunch of apartments.

I get out my Sign and use it to guide me up two flights of stairs, down a long, claustrophobically narrow hall, up yet another flight of rickety steps, and finally to a small, plain door.

I squint at it, wondering if there's something wrong with my Sign.

Why would the scion of a great Crafter line be living in the attic of a run-down house in one of the city's worst neighborhoods?

Maybe I misinterpreted my Sign's meanings, somehow.

Regardless, the answer is behind this door.

I knock loudly, wait, and knock again.

A moment later, I hear footsteps and a soft groan, and then the door opens inward to reveal a cramped, cold, piteously bare space, in the entrance of which stands Sylas Lovecraft, still dressed in the oddly somber suit I'd last seen him in.

Swaying on his feet and blinking sleep from his bloodshot eyes, he gazes up at me.

"Lyssa, for love's sake. Wha—"

He cuts off mid-word, and his already pale face goes stark white. Then he stumbles back a pace, trips on his own feet, and falls on his ass.

My heart goes cold as I take in the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the wide, frightening look in his eyes, and I'm strangely disappointed.

For some reason I'd wanted to like this kid, but I know guilt when I see it.