Prophecy's Child (Broken Throne Book 2) Read online

  Winnie didn’t notice that the crowd had stopped shouting, now standing in paralytic wonder. A few had their phones out and were snapping pics and videos of Winnie, moving her arms in complex patterns, trying to maintain control over something she shouldn’t even have been able to conjure.

  While the crowd watched her work, Winnie struggled to hold the flood of energy coursing through her and into the sky. She burned inside, as if the magic she was trying to control was scorching her from the inside out.

  Soon, it would burn through her, and she would have to let it go.

  But Winnie couldn’t let that turn into a catastrophic explosion. She had to do something, channel the energy elsewhere, like a lightning strike grounded by a lightning rod.

  She searched for somewhere to send the energy, sensing the city below, as if she were flying high above. Winnie looked down and a spot below drew her attention. She smiled to herself, satisfied.

  A green glow bled from the steel mill as the dome of fire, magic, and dust yawned out to cover the city. Winnie wished she could zoom in to see the source of that emerald glow, but it didn’t matter. The glow beckoned her — it would be the best place to send the energy Winnie now felt at the edge of her fingertips.

  With only moments to spare, she spread her arms wide over her head then thrust them down toward the pavement.

  The magic, fire, and dust billowing above the city plunged down into a single spot to form a tornado, drawing in the nearby fire and dust, pulling it along with residual magic into the ground under the abandoned steel mill.

  The final wisp of magic dove to the ground across town.

  Winnie smiled and turned to find her mother’s eyes. They met, then her own eyes rolled up into her head.

  Winnie collapsed to the pavement, her stare turned upward to the sky.

  Before blacking out, she marveled at the sky’s deep azure, filled with fluffy clouds and not a single visible speck of swirling orange dust.

  CHAPTER 23

  Nils Kane turned from the flat screen monitor mounted on his office wall and gave Victor a grim smile. “Well, that was quite spectacular, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Victor closed his open mouth. The live feed from the Baltimore Enclave showing the riots in action had been the reason for Victor’s summons. They had expected to watch the germination of their many planted seeds: doubt, anger, and distrust for chanters among the middling communities. They hadn’t expected Winnie Durham to waltz in to single-handedly extinguish the fires and defuse the tension with some sort of wild magic. A bystander had caught the action on her phone before uploading the video to the local news channel. Now it was everywhere.

  Victor didn’t have an answer. After a moment of watching, Kane waved a hand in the air, dismissing the question. “The Durham girl has resources that I’ve never seen. That kind of power and control hasn’t been present for centuries. She is a dangerous adversary.”

  “Should I send men to collect her?”

  “Oh, God no. That coverage will be played constantly for the next several days. Let people see her and vilify her deeds. They will blame her for everything.” Kane gestured toward the TV behind him. “We haven’t had blue skies for nearly a month. She makes it happen in minutes.”

  Victor’s right hand pulsed while he watched the live feed and witnessed Winnie’s confrontation with the crowd. Something was pulling on him, a gentle tugging over the now constant pins and needles. He had stopped paying attention to the wisps of glowing threads he now constantly saw at the corners of his vision, fearing what it might mean.

  “Inspector, what are you thinking about? You haven’t been paying attention. I don’t appreciate that in a subordinate.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Victor said, trying to hold his anger. “I was considering the hard work we’d done to start the riots. Seems like it was all for nothing.”

  Kane shook his head. “This is not a total loss. There is still tremendous animosity directed at chanters. We can use Miss Durham’s spectacular performance to point out that they could have stopped the storms and prevented Boston’s destruction at any time, if they had wanted to.”

  The Director turned back to the TV. A team of commentators were gathered in a news room, discussing what had happened in Baltimore and showing feeds from other cities, and a cessation of the constant dust storms. Skies weren’t yet clear in places like New Amsterdam or Philadelphia, but the dust was no longer eating the streets. The weather was clearly better.

  Kane picked up the remote from his desk and turned up the volume.

  “Following the change in weather patterns up and down the coast, our team has reached out to a history professor specializing in chanters and their magic. We have Dr. Benton Nash from Princely University here by phone to comment on what we’ve all just seen. Dr. Nash, can you please explain these extraordinary events?”

  The picture cut from the news desk to a repeating sequence of Winnie swallowed by tongues of flame, swirling all around her and funneling up into the sky. A photograph of Dr. Nash, and his name below it, showed up on the screen as he began to speak.

  “There is precedent that magic used in one location could have widespread effects on a broader geographic area. I have surmised on this program before that the storms were related to some mistaken use of magic, perhaps by this young woman, or someone like her.”

  A woman’s voice: “You’re saying this remarkable young woman may have been the cause of the storms and Boston’s destruction?”

  The screen switched to a close-up of Winnie. She appeared to be in pain, weaving whatever spell she’d used to fight the fires and dust.

  “It is a possibility,” the professor said, “but I would like to interview her before jumping to such a conclusion. She is certainly displaying a breed of power we’ve not seen a chanter wield in our lifetimes.”

  “What do you mean by that, Dr. Nash?”

  “This kind of elemental magic was more common in use two or three centuries ago. Its use has died out, many suppose due to the natural decline of our magical supply. This is the theory among historians such as myself — that magic’s been waning for hundreds of years, and that chanters have been limited to minor charms on smaller objects. Even the use of the grander magic to control our cities has required a greater number of chanter technicians to cast new spells for public works, because of the limited amount of magic each worker could wield. This young lady displayed something today that disrupts that theory.”

  “If you were to guess at why she is only now displaying her powers, what would you say?”

  “Well, this is only a supposition on my part, but I would say that either something has changed in the fundamental mechanics of magic, or … This young lady has displayed a power that chanters have said is impossible to wield. Were they lying to hide their true powers, or is there something else happening? I simply don’t know without more evidence to go on.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Nash, for your expert input. We suppose that last question is for our esteemed leaders, like Director Nilrem Kane. I’m sure he’ll want a long chat with this young woman about her dangerous powers.” The female anchor managed a crooked smile. “We’ll be back after this message from our sponsors.”

  Kane muted the beer commercial and turned to Victor.

  “See, our friends in the news are helping manage the Durham situation. If I make a few innocuous statements through official channels, we’ll have her become the person of interest, single-handedly responsible for all of our problems, and all in one day.” Kane gave a sinister, barking laugh. “It’s better than I could have hoped.”

  “Yes, sir,” Victor agreed, though it made him nauseous to blame the girl for everything. He suspected that use of the Harvester had been the inciting magical disturbance, and not anything that Winnie Durham had done.

  Victor wondered if Morgan had been watching the news like everyone else surely was. Even if no one else in the Red Legs headquarters recognized Winnie, Morgan would.

  “You
will return to Baltimore and tell your informants to renew their efforts against the chanters. Miss Durham shall remain at the heart of their ire. Leak her identity and arrest record to the media. Let’s put pressure on her and Merrilyn — he’ll surely have to provide her protection in the face of what’s happened. See if you can manufacture another confrontation where some poor, innocent middlings are directly injured by some sort of magical attack. I’m sure you can come up with something creative.”

  “Yes, sir,” Victor murmured.

  He didn’t want to attack any chanters, least of all Winnie. He’d not be able to hide his involvement from Morgan, and he now valued her opinion more than he valued even Nils Kane’s. She saw greatness inside him. But when Victor was involved in the things Director Kane wanted him to do, he wasn’t worthy of her faith.

  “That is all, inspector. I’ll want a report on how your efforts are proceeding. You have two days.”

  Victor straightened. “Yes, sir. Two days.”

  “Very well. See yourself out.” Kane turned the volume back up.

  Victor approached the door and was surprised to see a gathering of reporters and cameras waiting for a comment from the Director.

  Reporters took one look at Victor’s inspectors’ insignia and rushed him.

  “I have no comment on today’s events,” he mumbled, trying to push his way past the reporters.

  He heard the door open, then the Director’s voice behind him.

  “Yes, yes, I have a statement about today’s troubling events in Baltimore. I have just met with my senior officer. Inspector Holmes is heading to the Enclave now. We will get to the bottom of this girl’s unprecedented attack on our citizens.”

  Victor walked faster, desperate to leave before one of the reporters decided to drag him back into the impromptu conference outside the Director’s office.

  He reached the elevator and pressed the L button for a ride to the lobby.

  Victor was startled by a voice from behind. “Hello, Inspector. Mind if I ride with you back to city?”

  The woman was short, and dressed in a red pantsuit. She carried a spiral notepad in one hand and a cellphone in the other.

  “I’m sorry, Miss … ?”

  “Hallie Carr. I’m a reporter from The Baltimore Observer. Our paper’s been following your rise in the department for the last few months. You must be proud of your accomplishments.”

  “I am. But I can’t comment on the current situation. I haven’t been there myself, and don’t have any new information. Make an appointment with our desk sergeant, and I can arrange a formal interview at the station.”

  “That’s not the story I’m covering. I’m part of The Observer’s Light on the News investigational reporting team. We’re working on a long-term piece about something else entirely.”

  The elevator doors opened. Victor entered, followed by the reporter. She smiled at him, continuing her conversation as the doors closed.

  “We’re investigating the Red Legs’ involvement in an industrial accident involving the death of many Baltimore citizens at the Beth Steel Mill.” She held out her phone and Victor realized she was recording their conversation. “Would you care to comment about the events that transpired that evening? We have it on reliable authority that you were present during the incident.”

  Victor looked around the tiny elevator car. He was trapped a caged animal. The pins and needles in his right hand were now throbbing. He clutched it in his left, kneading it with his fingers. How had this woman stumbled onto that story? They had explained the event as a random industrial accident a month ago.

  “Your sources are mistaken, Miss Carr.” Victor held an even tone, unwilling to betray his panic.

  “I see, well, perhaps we can discuss the reports that recent riots between middlings and chanters were orchestrated by someone high in the DMC?”

  Victor nearly gasped aloud. Where was this woman getting her information?

  He was still mulling his response when the elevator doors dinged and another crush of reporters tried to board the box to the Director’s office.

  He pushed his way out of the car, managing to lose the inquisitive woman from The Observer. Victor turned and ran for the stairs, down to the train station’s underground access. He had to board the next train out before the reporter could catch up. He refused to spend the entire ride to Baltimore with her sitting beside him and roasting him with questions.

  Victor sprinted toward the departing train, showed his pass to the conductor, and boarded just before the doors closed. He turned, looking back with relief as young Miss Carr ran onto the platform, a moment too late.

  Thank God something had finally gone right.

  Victor found his seat. At least he’d be alone with his thoughts for the ride back to Baltimore and Morgan.

  CHAPTER 24

  Winnie looked up, blinking at the bright sky as a trio of shadowy figures leaned into view. Voices were calling her name and she wasn’t sure why she was lying outside while people shouted. Her mind slowly processed the sounds, her mother’s frantic voice among the din, alongside Tris and Cait.

  “Winnie, honey, are you alright? Wake up, sweetie, it’s Mama.”

  “What the heck was that?” Tris asked, looking down at her.

  “That was awesome!” Cait reached down to offer Winnie a hand.

  “Don’t get her up,” Elaine protested. “She must’ve hit her head. She might be injured.”

  “Nah. I’ve seen this before in the army. When you channel too much magic at once, you sort of pass out while your body resets.”

  “She shouldn’t have been doing whatever that was.” Elaine waved her twisted hands, mimicking what Winnie must’ve been doing with the fire and dust. She barely remembered doing it.

  “At least sit up,” Tris said. “That crowd scattered quickly, but I bet others are coming. You shouldn’t be lying here in the street.”

  Winnie took Tris and Cait’s hands then moved to a sitting position, still marveling at the bright sunshine washing the world into something new. She squinted up, staring into the pale blue above, beautiful enough to stop her heart.

  A neighbor from down the street came over and touched Winnie on her head. “God bless you, Guinevere Durham. Thank you for saving us.”

  The woman smiled and walked away. Soon others came over to say similar things, none that made any sense. Thanks for protecting us! You’re the Enclave’s savior! I’m naming my daughter Winnie!

  After a few more of these random and almost unsettling comments, Winnie struggled to stand.

  “Tell your friends to go home,” Elaine said. “We need to discuss how you did what you did. You’ve been dabbling in things that will hurt you.”

  Winnie spun on her mother. “I’m not coming inside to have you scold me about saving your life. If I hadn’t done what I did, we’d all be dead or severely injured and you know it. Stop telling me what to do!”

  “Guinevere Durham, you do not talk to me that way. I don’t care how old you are or what you think you did or can do. I am your mother and you will come inside now.” Elaine drew herself up as high as her crippled body could go. Anger burned in her eyes.

  Winnie didn’t care. She was angry, too.

  “No, Mom. I’m not going with you. My friends and I have other things we have to do.” Winnie turned, looked at Tris and Cait, then walked away.

  Tris and Cait followed. They turned the corner in silence, Winnie considering where to go next. There was the neighborhood pub and bistro. She could stop in and gather her thoughts. She was famished, probably from the expenditure, after whatever she did to eliminate the fire and dust.

  The Eastern Pub had escaped the worst of the rioting and appeared to be open. Winnie opened the door and entered with her friends behind her.

  The restaurant was full of people, all with their attention glued to the TV and a video of Winnie, with fire and dust swirling all around her in ribbons of red, yellow, and muted orange. The image was taller than
it was wide, taken on someone’s phone.

  Winnie began to back out of the bar.

  Someone yelled, “It’s her! She’s the one who stopped the riots!”

  Everyone in the restaurant turned and stared once.

  Time froze, and so did Winnie.

  Then the crowd sucked her in, like dust into a vacuum.

  They pulled her towards the bar, clapping their hands and reaching out to pat Winnie on the back as she passed. She looked over her shoulder at Tris and Cait, still standing by the door, both clearly bewildered.

  Winnie was freaking out. The crowd was pressing in, pulling her down like undertow, everyone desperate to shake her hand.

  A strong arm pulled Winnie to one side, and suddenly she was behind the bar, with the wooden counter between her and the crowd. Winnie was standing next to the restaurant’s owner. She recognized the man but didn’t know his name.

  She smiled and leaned back against the bar, grateful for the space.

  “You stay there, little lady,” the owner said. “We’ll keep the folks from mobbing you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. … ?”

  “Beecham. Dean Beecham, Miss Durham.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I do. You and your mother have been coming in here forever, at least for an occasional lunch. Your mom and I go way back. We went to school together, though she’s a year or two older than I am. I took this place over from my dad after he passed. Can I get you something to eat or drink? You look half-dead.”

  “I think I need to eat. I feel like I might faint.”

  “We can’t have that. I’ll set you and your friends up at a table in the corner, and get a couple of the regulars to stand by and keep people away while you eat, alright?”

  “That would be wonderful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “No need. Now let’s get you in a chair before you fall right over. I’ve a shepherd’s pie to fill you up.”