maybe you should see a doctor or something."
"That's okay, thank you. Don't trouble yourself. Sorry to bother you." The guard kept moving away and I trailed behind him.
A second guard approached. This one looked like someone's fat grandfather. "What's going on here?"
"This man nearly collapsed," I said quickly. "I told him he should see a doctor or something, but...."
Fat Grandpa nodded and took the other man's arm, stepping forward in a way that forced me to back off. The two guards started toward the elevator, talking in low tones.
I watched them enter the elevator. When the doors closed no one had fallen over dead.
I went back to the table, took the scrap paper from my pocket and smoothed it out. I could feel the magic in it. Annalise's ribbon had not been like this. Maybe spells feel strongest to the person who created it? I had no way to know.
Did Callin's waistcoat, which was covered with sigils, feel like this, times twenty? Did Annalise's entire body feel like this times a hundred? It boggled my mind to think they were surrounded by this kind of power all the time.
And now I had my little piece of it. Mine.
But I had to be more careful. I'd just accidentally used my spell against the security guard and I didn't really know what I'd done. What if he'd just had a stroke?
Or maybe I'd only cut the man's "ghost"--his soul or spirit or something. Maybe it wasn't dangerous at all, like a magical stun gun. I liked that idea so much that I decided to believe it.
The guard's watch lay on the carpet; I picked up both pieces. It had been cut through the band and the watch face. It was a clean, sharp cut right through the metal workings.
According to Callin's book the ghost knife cuts "ghosts, magic and dead things." The watch was a dead thing, of course. I held the edge of the paper against the corner of the wooden table then pressed down.
The paper crinkled and bent. It didn't work against wood.
The table was certainly dead, though. I held the paper in place again, and this time I let myself feel the power coming out of the spell. It belonged to me, the way my thumb or my ear belonged to me.
I willed it to cut, then pressed down.
The sheet of paper sliced through the table corner as though it wasn't there. The hunk of wood struck the floor with a chunky, substantial sound.
I looked at the ghost knife again. A single word kept running through my head: Power power power power.
No one else came to roust me from my chair. I looked back at the table where the woman had glared at me. Her seat was empty.
Fair enough. I turned to the other bookmarked page.
Steeled glass. To protect against a single blow. I moved a fresh piece of scrap paper into position and held the pen over it. I wanted to be ready this time.
Except I wasn't ready, not for that ordeal. Was I really going to set myself on fire for a spell that seemed it would only protect me from one attack? One bullet, one knife thrust, one punch from Annalise's padlock-snapping hands?
I rubbed my face, then looked over the page. The fire had hurt, but it hadn't harmed me in any way I could tell, while Annalise could tear my arms off if she wanted to. I had the ghost knife, sure, but I needed protection, too, so I'd have a chance to use it.
And there was Jon. If Annalise killed me, who would protect Jon?
It was a frightening thought, and not just because the word kill had emerged from my subconscious after churning around in there for hours. I was falling back into my old life. I was standing with my friends again, planning to fight their enemies. This was the person I was supposed to have left behind.
But this wasn't like the bad old days with Arne and his crew. Jon was a good guy, while Arne was most definitely not. I wasn't going to become my old self. I was going to be the good guy now.
Besides, I had a debt to pay. I had taken away Jon's legs. I'd taken walking and baseball and all kinds of things I didn't even want to think
"That's okay, thank you. Don't trouble yourself. Sorry to bother you." The guard kept moving away and I trailed behind him.
A second guard approached. This one looked like someone's fat grandfather. "What's going on here?"
"This man nearly collapsed," I said quickly. "I told him he should see a doctor or something, but...."
Fat Grandpa nodded and took the other man's arm, stepping forward in a way that forced me to back off. The two guards started toward the elevator, talking in low tones.
I watched them enter the elevator. When the doors closed no one had fallen over dead.
I went back to the table, took the scrap paper from my pocket and smoothed it out. I could feel the magic in it. Annalise's ribbon had not been like this. Maybe spells feel strongest to the person who created it? I had no way to know.
Did Callin's waistcoat, which was covered with sigils, feel like this, times twenty? Did Annalise's entire body feel like this times a hundred? It boggled my mind to think they were surrounded by this kind of power all the time.
And now I had my little piece of it. Mine.
But I had to be more careful. I'd just accidentally used my spell against the security guard and I didn't really know what I'd done. What if he'd just had a stroke?
Or maybe I'd only cut the man's "ghost"--his soul or spirit or something. Maybe it wasn't dangerous at all, like a magical stun gun. I liked that idea so much that I decided to believe it.
The guard's watch lay on the carpet; I picked up both pieces. It had been cut through the band and the watch face. It was a clean, sharp cut right through the metal workings.
According to Callin's book the ghost knife cuts "ghosts, magic and dead things." The watch was a dead thing, of course. I held the edge of the paper against the corner of the wooden table then pressed down.
The paper crinkled and bent. It didn't work against wood.
The table was certainly dead, though. I held the paper in place again, and this time I let myself feel the power coming out of the spell. It belonged to me, the way my thumb or my ear belonged to me.
I willed it to cut, then pressed down.
The sheet of paper sliced through the table corner as though it wasn't there. The hunk of wood struck the floor with a chunky, substantial sound.
I looked at the ghost knife again. A single word kept running through my head: Power power power power.
No one else came to roust me from my chair. I looked back at the table where the woman had glared at me. Her seat was empty.
Fair enough. I turned to the other bookmarked page.
Steeled glass. To protect against a single blow. I moved a fresh piece of scrap paper into position and held the pen over it. I wanted to be ready this time.
Except I wasn't ready, not for that ordeal. Was I really going to set myself on fire for a spell that seemed it would only protect me from one attack? One bullet, one knife thrust, one punch from Annalise's padlock-snapping hands?
I rubbed my face, then looked over the page. The fire had hurt, but it hadn't harmed me in any way I could tell, while Annalise could tear my arms off if she wanted to. I had the ghost knife, sure, but I needed protection, too, so I'd have a chance to use it.
And there was Jon. If Annalise killed me, who would protect Jon?
It was a frightening thought, and not just because the word kill had emerged from my subconscious after churning around in there for hours. I was falling back into my old life. I was standing with my friends again, planning to fight their enemies. This was the person I was supposed to have left behind.
But this wasn't like the bad old days with Arne and his crew. Jon was a good guy, while Arne was most definitely not. I wasn't going to become my old self. I was going to be the good guy now.
Besides, I had a debt to pay. I had taken away Jon's legs. I'd taken walking and baseball and all kinds of things I didn't even want to think
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