Charmfall by Chloe Neill Page B

to the wall about five feet from the ground and a foot or so from the door. Standing back, it looked just like an ordinary bug. We might not get much use out of it before a Reaper decided to do a little pest control, but hopefully it would work for a little while. I pushed the button beneath the wings, and when the light popped on, I took off again, not even worrying about the sound of my footsteps in the hallway.
    I hit the metal door at a sprint, pushed through it, bounded down the stairs, and popped back into the tunnel. Everybody wrapped me in a hug.
    And for a moment, until the claustrophobia kicked in, it was pretty awesome.
    “Okay,” Detroit said, when they finally let me go. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” She lifted her wrist to show her giant black watch. She pressed a couple of buttons on the side, and the screen blinked to life.
    It showed a grainy black-and-white picture of the banner room. I closed my eyes in relief; the camera worked. Detroit adjusted the sound until it was just loud enough to hear, and we crowded around to watch.
    The banner room was mostly empty, but Jeremiah’s tall, white-haired form was unmistakable. He wore a black suit, and his hands were behind his back. He stood in a circle with a few other men who were yelling at him.
    “No,” one of them was saying, “we don’t trust your leadership. Why should we?”
    “We have no magic,” said another. “And we’ve heard Adepts have no magic, either. We want to know who’s to blame for that.”
    Jeremiah tipped his aristocratic nose in the air. “You believe I am to blame?”
    “We believe we have questions,” said the first guy, “and we aren’t getting any answers. We’d like some now. Namely, how do we know you aren’t the one to blame?”
    Jeremiah bared his teeth, and with lightning-quick moves, grabbed the man by the collar of his suit and pushed him until his back hit the wall. And then Jeremiah lifted him up until the guy’s feet dangled a foot in the air. The man scrambled to free himself, grasping at Jeremiah’s fingers.
    For an old guy, Jeremiah was strong.
    “Should we do something?” I wondered.
    “It’s not our fight,” Jason whispered. “Besides—what could we do?”
    “Do you have issues with my leadership?” Jeremiah asked him.
    “I—I—I have issues with not having mag-mag-magic.”
    “I have not caused this outbreak, but I will fix it, just as I have fixed every other problem we have encountered over the years. Now, Hamilton, do you have any doubts about me?”
    “N-n-no, sir.”
    Jeremiah dropped his hands and stepped back. The man fell to the ground and put a hand to his neck, rubbing his throat.
    “What if Adepts are doing this?” he choked out. “What if this is part of their rebellion against us?”
    Jeremiah dusted off his hands and walked a few feet away. “The vast majority of Adepts don’t have the power to pull this off. And it certainly isn’t their style to take power away from everyone.”
    “The vast majority?” asked a trim man who stood beside Jeremiah—one who had watched him manhandle Hamilton without blinking or intervening.
    Jeremiah glanced back at him. “The spellbinder has the strength to do this, although I doubt she has the will. In either event, the Grimoire is more important now than ever. We will obtain it. We will find the magic that reverses whatever is being done here, and we will correct it.” He looked at the man to his right. “All plans are in place?”
    “Of course,” he said.
    “In that case, we’re done here. I sincerely hope we don’t need to have this discussion again.” He gave everyone a harsh look, and when they murmured their good-byes, walked away.
    Detroit turned off the camera, and for a second, we all stood there quietly.
    I looked at Scout. Sebastian had been right again. “He thinks you turned off the power, and they’re coming for the Grimoire . They already have a plan.”
    “I could do it,” she said confidently.