Page 23 of Magpie

I stand outside the brownstone, my heart ricocheting in my chest. My bus arrived in the city as the sun was rising, and I instantly punched the address into my phone, pulling up the map.

The walking directions were less than ideal, but I didn’t want to get into a taxi just to have them shout at me to get out.

It took nearly half the cash left in my backpack to bribe the bus driver into letting me on.

Death is creeping off me, growing more dominant the longer I’m without my key.

It has taken me all morning and the beginning of the afternoon to walk here.

The sight of the brownstone steals the breath from my lungs.

I’m transported so suddenly back to that first night, when I was still a trembling leaf in Alister’s arms. When we stepped from the House to wander the misty streets of Ireland.

I swallow, trying to remind myself that this isn’t his house.

I would feel it if it was. Still, I find myself studying the building, wary of it.

The bricks are a deep rusty hue, and there are twisting iron bars covering the windows, resembling ivy.

Stone ravens stand as silent guards atop the steps leading to the hulking metal door.

I take a trembling step, one small movement pulling me closer to the building that reminds me far too much of the House. Another step, then another—

“Get the hell off the road!” a driver shouts at me through his window, blaring his horn and making me jump out of my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning and locking eyes with him, only remembering at the last moment that I shouldn’t have.

“Holy hell,” he whispers, his eyes growing wide as he takes me in. I wince, grabbing my hood and yanking it low over my face as I run across the road. He slams on the gas and peels out, speeding off, as if he can’t get away from me fast enough.

Breathing heavily, I look up the stone steps. The glistening glass eyes of the raven statues watch me, and I shiver, feeling like they will take flight at any moment and attack me with their massive talons. Screwing up all my courage, I climb the stairs.

There is a no doorbell or buzzer that I can find, so instead I pound three times on the metal door.

I hurry back, not wanting to be too close to the door, not wanting them to feel me.

I’m shifting nervously on the balls of my feet, looking rapidly over my shoulder as I wait.

I’m just beginning to consider knocking again when I hear what sounds like an endless series of locks snapping open, and the door swings wide.

A woman stands in the doorway, looking around until her hard green eyes land on me.

Her snow-white hair is tossed into a messy bun on her head, fitting right in with her baggy, wrinkled tank top.

Even her skintight dark-wash jeans have holes in the knees and thighs, and the sneakers on her feet look beat-up and weather-worn.

The only things about her that aren’t disheveled are the lace choker around her throat and the leather jacket she’s wearing, which looks several sizes too big for her.

She takes one look at me, eyeing me up and down, before she turns over her shoulder and calls, “Ronan!”

She doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t say a single word as she leans against the doorframe and continues to observe me.

Upon closer inspection, I notice the lace necklace is in fact a tattoo of swirling script and symbols.

Ones I know too well—the exact kind that are in Alister’s books.

I’m just beginning to take a step back, certain this is another mistake, when I hear pounding footsteps.

“Goddammit, Lyric, how many times do I have to tell you to never open this door?” a deep voice snaps.

A looming statue of a man comes to the door.

His dark brown hair is tousled, as though he runs his hands through it a lot.

He’s dressed sharply in well-tailored pants and a crisp white button-down, a loose black tie hanging around his neck.

His shirt alone probably cost more than the entire envelope Mr. Mortimer gave me before I fled.

The only thing about him that isn’t cut from the cloth of perfection is the looping tattoos that cover every inch of his hands, running up his wrists and beneath his shirtsleeves.

I suspect they travel much further up his arms. He glares down at the woman—Lyric, I assume—who is still eyeing me.

He towers over her. She finally looks at him with a bored expression, undaunted by his stature and his glare.

“Get better locks if you don’t want me opening the door,” she says with a shrug, turning and disappearing into the recesses of the house.

“Like that would help,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair and turning to acknowledge me at last. His neon-blue eyes find mine and grow wide.

I’m waiting for a look of abject terror, a shouted curse, a demand that I get the fuck off his stoop.

I’m prepared to plead my case as he slams the door in my face.

What I’m not ready for is him saying, “So Alister finally broke Irina down. I never thought she would give him the death key.”

“I…what?” I say, completely at a loss.

He stands back, sweeping his arm wide. “I guess you better come inside before anyone else sees you. This is a peaceful neighborhood; I don’t need you blowing our cover by leaching decay everywhere.”

“Rude…” I mutter, trying to be indignant, but knowing he’s right. Even though I have no idea how he knows any of this. Remembering at the last moment, I say, “The Bird of Fortune sent me for the final key.”

“I bet she did.” He laughs, the sound completely devoid of humor. “Well, are you going to come inside, or do you need a formal invitation like a vampire?”

Asshole.

“Only sometimes,” he says, remaining stoic even as my eyes grow wide.

“Asshole,” I say, out loud this time, narrowing my eyes at him and gripping the straps of my backpack tightly. I feel power sizzling off him, and I make no move to get any closer. “How do I know this isn’t a trap? How do I know that when that door closes, it’s going to open again to let me out?”

“You don’t,” he answers, shrugging and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a pocket watch and studying the face.

“He already has one woman trapped in here,” Lyric’s voice shouts from somewhere inside the house. “He doesn’t want another one.”

“Lyric, go back to your lesson,” he shouts over his shoulder, his brows knitting together in annoyance.

“Fucking make me.”

Ronan is so engrossed in his battle with Lyric that he doesn’t see when I balk at the mention of lessons.

Almost every single night I am woken by the memory of those lessons .

It hits me all at once: he’s a mage, a powerful one.

Surely nothing other than a force to be reckoned with.

I can feel the sea of power crashing off him.

And he has a woman trapped inside his home.

Irina did not send me here to find a solution—she sent me here to be caged by yet another master.

He turns his eyes back to me moments before I launch myself at him. He doesn’t have a second to prepare before I’m barreling into him, sending the two of us careening over the threshold of his house.

“Oh, shit,” I hear Lyric swear as I raise my fist and slam it into his cheek.

“Run! Get out of here!” I shout to her, hoping she will listen to me and take her chance at freedom.

I raise my fist again, but Ronan’s momentary shock has worn off, and he rolls forcefully, flinging me off him.

I tumble, slamming into the wall, sending several picture frames crashing to the ground, the glass shattering around me.

I ignore the shards that dig into my palms as I scramble up on my knees, before coming to a freezing halt.

A switchblade is pressed to my throat. Casting my eyes sideways, I see Lyric kneeling next to me, holding the weapon. Confusion and betrayal war within me as I study her stern features. “Run,” I whisper, my voice pleading.

“Ease up, psycho, I’m not going anywhere,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“Thank you, Lyric, but that’s not necessary,” Ronan says.

I flick my gaze to him. He’s rubbing his jaw where I hit him, and I smile ruefully at him.

He glowers in return. Lyric pauses for another moment before pulling back and flipping her blade closed.

She tucks it into her front pocket as she moves to stand next to Ronan, crossing her arms and staring down at me.

Ronan steps forward, glass crunching under his polished shoes as he crouches down and looks at me. “Tea?” he asks, and I open and close my mouth several times, but no words spill out. I’m having a hard time keeping up. “Or maybe something stronger?”

I can’t answer, can’t get my voice to work. I dart my eyes between the confusing pair. Swallowing hard, working some kind of moisture into my throat, I ask, “Who are you?”

Ronan flicks his eyes up and down me, just once, as if determining whether I’m trustworthy.

I guess I’m not found wanting, because he catches and holds my gaze as he says, “I trained them. I showed them how to read those books they had no business owning. I created Alister and Irina. I’m their master. ”

We were young, and I was blinded by love, so when he stumbled upon someone who would teach us, I agreed without hesitation.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, realizing just what kind of force I’m dealing with.

He looks at me, staring death in the eyes and not flinching as he says, “My thoughts exactly.”