would be troubled about that.
Still, no power was apparent as Cassandra gazed into the water. I don’t think she was pulling a con; she probably thought she really saw things in those swirling patterns. Maybe she did, but they were all in her mind.
I edged back toward the table to get a better look. All I could see were swirls of ink, but Cassandra seemed to have no problem in discerning a pattern. I wondered what she would do if something truly recognizable were to appear in those twisting strands of ink. No sooner thought than done.
I don’t have the artistic skill to create a portrait from scratch, so I just let out a little talent, ran the energy through my body, and let it flow into the pan of water. The curls of ink immediately started to form a picture of my own face, like a fine-lined pen-and-ink drawing. Sharp angular features formed, a shock of dark hair, and a dark, brooding expression on the face that was a caricature of my real self. The red ink pooled around my eyes, giving the face a demonic air. Sherwood saw what I was doing and glared at me.
Cassandra drew her breath in sharply as the face in the water became more detailed and lifelike. She looked up at me, then back at the water, then at me again. Then she spoke, but the words were not anything I expected.
“Who sent you?” she said. “Jessie?”
I was caught off guard and stammered incoherently for a moment. Cassandra pushed her chair back and stood up slowly. She fixed her gaze on me and advanced, all four foot eleven of her. It should have been funny, but there was nothing funny about her. I could feel the energy crackling around her. I’d made a bad mistake; she was a practitioner, all right. The second I’d let down my shielding and used some talent, she’d pegged me. That residue of talent I’d sensed floating around earlier wasn’t the random emanation of a meager talent at all; they were wisps that had escaped her own shielding. I backed up instinctively as she approached me.
“Take it easy,” I said. “We don’t mean you any harm.”
She laughed, barking it out like a curse. “Don’t you, now? Well, that’s good of you, a very fine thing.”
Her lilting Jamaican accent grew more pronounced, at odds with the angry intent of her words. She broke off her advance and walked over to the door, fast but not panicky. When she reached it, she turned and faced the room, clasping her hands above her head. “Go free,” she said, and unlocked her fingers, clearly implementing a spell. She stared at us, opened the door a fraction, and squeezed through. “Good luck.”
The moment Cassandra passed through the doorway, Sherwood sprang up from her chair.
“Shouldn’t we go after her?”
That question was answered by the unmistakable sound of the dead bolt being slotted into place. As if the sound had triggered it, a set of wards sprang up around the door, glowing with jagged lines of force. Not literally—wards are perceived on the psychic plane, and you don’t exactly see them—that’s just a metaphor. But the important thing was that Cassandra wasn’t running from us at all. She didn’t have to—she had neatly trapped us in her basement room.
Usually wards cover an entire house, or at least a room. And sometimes you can locate weak points. But this room was cement, and underwater. There was no need to ward the entire area—just the door, the only way out. So they could be concentrated there, making them all the more difficult to defeat.
I was sure that between Sherwood and myself we could dismantle them, given enough time. But there was still the dead bolt. Getting out was going to pose quite a problem. Meanwhile, a more pressing issue presented itself.
The whirling stars on the ceiling had grown brighter and were moving faster, now with urgency. I didn’t like the looks of them, and neither did Sherwood. She walked over to the laser projector, searched for the on/off switch for a moment, and finally just unplugged it.
Still, no power was apparent as Cassandra gazed into the water. I don’t think she was pulling a con; she probably thought she really saw things in those swirling patterns. Maybe she did, but they were all in her mind.
I edged back toward the table to get a better look. All I could see were swirls of ink, but Cassandra seemed to have no problem in discerning a pattern. I wondered what she would do if something truly recognizable were to appear in those twisting strands of ink. No sooner thought than done.
I don’t have the artistic skill to create a portrait from scratch, so I just let out a little talent, ran the energy through my body, and let it flow into the pan of water. The curls of ink immediately started to form a picture of my own face, like a fine-lined pen-and-ink drawing. Sharp angular features formed, a shock of dark hair, and a dark, brooding expression on the face that was a caricature of my real self. The red ink pooled around my eyes, giving the face a demonic air. Sherwood saw what I was doing and glared at me.
Cassandra drew her breath in sharply as the face in the water became more detailed and lifelike. She looked up at me, then back at the water, then at me again. Then she spoke, but the words were not anything I expected.
“Who sent you?” she said. “Jessie?”
I was caught off guard and stammered incoherently for a moment. Cassandra pushed her chair back and stood up slowly. She fixed her gaze on me and advanced, all four foot eleven of her. It should have been funny, but there was nothing funny about her. I could feel the energy crackling around her. I’d made a bad mistake; she was a practitioner, all right. The second I’d let down my shielding and used some talent, she’d pegged me. That residue of talent I’d sensed floating around earlier wasn’t the random emanation of a meager talent at all; they were wisps that had escaped her own shielding. I backed up instinctively as she approached me.
“Take it easy,” I said. “We don’t mean you any harm.”
She laughed, barking it out like a curse. “Don’t you, now? Well, that’s good of you, a very fine thing.”
Her lilting Jamaican accent grew more pronounced, at odds with the angry intent of her words. She broke off her advance and walked over to the door, fast but not panicky. When she reached it, she turned and faced the room, clasping her hands above her head. “Go free,” she said, and unlocked her fingers, clearly implementing a spell. She stared at us, opened the door a fraction, and squeezed through. “Good luck.”
The moment Cassandra passed through the doorway, Sherwood sprang up from her chair.
“Shouldn’t we go after her?”
That question was answered by the unmistakable sound of the dead bolt being slotted into place. As if the sound had triggered it, a set of wards sprang up around the door, glowing with jagged lines of force. Not literally—wards are perceived on the psychic plane, and you don’t exactly see them—that’s just a metaphor. But the important thing was that Cassandra wasn’t running from us at all. She didn’t have to—she had neatly trapped us in her basement room.
Usually wards cover an entire house, or at least a room. And sometimes you can locate weak points. But this room was cement, and underwater. There was no need to ward the entire area—just the door, the only way out. So they could be concentrated there, making them all the more difficult to defeat.
I was sure that between Sherwood and myself we could dismantle them, given enough time. But there was still the dead bolt. Getting out was going to pose quite a problem. Meanwhile, a more pressing issue presented itself.
The whirling stars on the ceiling had grown brighter and were moving faster, now with urgency. I didn’t like the looks of them, and neither did Sherwood. She walked over to the laser projector, searched for the on/off switch for a moment, and finally just unplugged it.
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