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
“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
Similar Books
