“Maybe if she could examine the bodies, she could—”

“That won’t be possible,” DeVries said.

After a stunned silence, McCauley said, “If we don’t know where they were or how they died, then how are we supposed to—”

“After three months of inaction, I don’t expect you to conduct anything more than a sham investigation,” Hackleford said. “Involving Ms. Foster would be like inviting one of the co-conspirators to sit in on the inquest. We’ll be handling this ourselves.”

“And . . . there were no survivors?” McCauley asked. “No witnesses?”

“No,” DeVries said. “There never are.”

He’s hiding something, Jonah thought, sitting up straighter. There’s something he’s not telling us. Could someone have survived? If so, why hadn’t that person identified Jonah himself ?

“We want access to the magical technology in the Hoard,” Hackleford said, “in the hopes that it might help us protect ourselves while we collect the proof we need. After all, those weapons were the property of the Wizard Guild before they were confiscated.”

Hastings twisted the ring on his forefinger. “Surely you don’t expect us to hand you an arsenal and send you out to seek vigilante justice for the killers. That’s the kind of thing we’re trying to avoid with the new constitution, the establishment of the council, and so on.”

“If you want to control everything, then where’s your magical police force?” Burroughs demanded. “Where’s your criminal court? What system have you developed to replace the Rules of Engagement?”

“We’re working on that,” McCauley said. “It takes time to—”

“Well, time is running out,” DeVries said. “If you’re not going to protect us, then we will protect ourselves.” He looked at Madison Moss. “If you’re really not the guilty party, you should start magically castrating people until somebody talks. Only this time, start with somebody other than wizards.”

He took a step back from the table. “My father was murdered years ago. And now my sister is dead. Don’t tell me to be patient. Give me weapons that I can use against these assassins and get out of my way. That’s all I want. In the meantime, I’ll keep what information I have to myself.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the sanctuary, followed by Burroughs and Hackleford.

Chapter Twenty-nine

In a World of Trouble

The door to the room flew open, and two wizards walked in. A man and a woman. They looked to be in their midthirties, with lean, hard faces.

Natalie stood and turned to face them, arms folded across her chest, like a wall between Emma and the newcomers.

They froze momentarily, as if startled to see Emma sitting up. “She’s awake!” the man said. “Why didn’t you call us?”

He crossed the room to Emma’s bedside, followed by the woman. The two wizards stood over her, looking down at her like they were hungry and she was dinner.

Emma blotted at her face with her forearm, sniffling, and Natalie handed her a tissue.

The man glared at Natalie. “Why is she crying? What did you say to her?”

“She’s an emotional wreck,” Natalie said, squeezing Emma’s shoulder. “Can you blame her?”

“Don’t encourage her,” the woman said. “We don’t have time for hysterics.” She was dressed in a sweater, skirt and fancy leather boots, elaborate earrings, and a heavy gold necklace. Her red-brown hair had that carefully tossed look that stank of money.

“I gave her something to help her sleep,” Natalie lied.

“You should let her rest now, and come back tomorrow.”

“She just woke up, and you gave her something to put her back to sleep? Who do you think you are?”

Natalie lifted her chin. “I’m a healer. That’s what I do.”

“If you say so,” the woman said. “Mandrake claims that you’re a gifted healer despite your disability, but I find that difficult to believe.” She paused for a heartbeat. “How fortunate that he’s been able to find useful work for you people.”

Dismissing Natalie, she turned to Emma. “I’m Ms.

Hackleford, and this is Mr. Burroughs. We’re going to ask you some questions.”

“Just so you know,” Natalie said. “Emma’s experiencing some memory loss.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?” Burroughs asked, scowling. He was whip-thin, with close-cropped dark hair.

He might have been handsome but for his cruel lips and empty eyes.

Natalie shrugged. “Temporary amnesia is a common reaction to emotional trauma.”

Hackleford made a small, unhappy moue. “So you’ve already interrogated her, have you?”

“Of course not,” Natalie said. “It’s too risky. After all my hard work, I don’t want to see her relapse.”

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Hackleford said. “It’s already been a week, and the trail is getting colder by the minute. There are eight people dead, my daughter included, and we need answers.”

It took Emma a moment to wick up the words. “Eight people dead?” she blurted. “What eight people?”

“Well, nine, counting your father.” Hackleford obviously didn’t.

“Then he is dead,” Emma whispered. “Tyler’s dead.” Once, years before, she’d been punched in the stomach on the playground, driving all the wind out of her. She felt like that now. She struggled to breathe, to take in air, but it was as if her airway was closing.

Her father had never been any kind of anchor . . . she hadn’t even known he existed until a few months ago. But still. She felt like she’d been cut loose and cast adrift, with no idea where she would eventually land. She finally understood the truth . . . that there would be no good news coming. Ever.

A door opened in Emma’s mind, and she saw blood. Blood spattered everywhere. A crowd around Tyler. Somebody slamming into her. Her father’s gun, spinning away from her. Glass raining down from overhead. She began to shake, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

“You see what I mean?” Natalie said. “This is not the time to—”

“This is wizard business,” Burroughs said. “If you want to make yourself useful, then identify the toxin. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be good at? Now get out.”

Natalie stood, fists clenched, and for a moment, Emma thought she might refuse to comply with the wizard’s demand. But she took a deep breath, released it, and left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Hackleford gazed at Emma, lips pursed, as if studying her for vulnerabilities. “So you see, Emma,” she said, in a low, foxy voice. “We’re all on the same side. We want to find out who murdered your father and my daughter and the others. We’re hoping you can help us. You do want to help us, don’t you?”

“We know who did it,” Burroughs said. “Or at least who gave the orders. All you have to do is say the names. We’ll take it from there.”

“S-say what?” Emma looked from one to the other. “You already know who murdered my father?”

Burroughs sat down on the side of the bed. Emma shuddered. She didn’t want him there, not at all. Meanwhile, Hackleford went and bolted the door. Emma’s heart began to thud so loud that she was sure the two wizards could hear it.

“Do you recognize this person? Was he one of the killers?” Burroughs extended a tablet toward her, displaying an image of a young man with dark curls and green eyes. Totally unfamiliar.

“No,” Emma said. “I don’t recognize him.”

The wizard’s lips tightened in annoyance. “Are you sure?”

“Well . . .” Emma licked her lips. “I can’t be sure—”

“So he might have been there?” Burroughs said, leaning forward, putting one hand on her pillow, next to her ear.

“I—I think I remember somebody with a mask.”

“A mask?” Burroughs and Hackleford looked at each other. “Could it have been him?” Burroughs thrust the screen under her nose again.

“To be honest, it could’ve been anyone.”

“How about her?” Burroughs asked, extending the tablet again. This time the screen displayed a photograph of a young woman with long, wavy brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

Emma pressed her hand against her forehead. Her headache had returned with a vengeance. It hurt to shake her head, but she did it anyway. “No.”

“Look at this one,” Burroughs persisted. This time, it was a photo of two people, a young man and a young woman, both holding elaborate swords and looking like they knew how to use them.

“Look, I don’t see the point,” she said. “They may or may not have been there, I just don’t remember.”

“How about names?” Hackleford asked. “Do you remember any names being mentioned?” She paused and, when Emma said nothing, continued: “Seph McCauley? Madison Moss? Jack Swift? Do any of those names sound familiar?”

“M-maybe if you came back . . . tomorrow. I’d remember more.”

“We need to know now,” Hackleford said, “before anyone else is murdered. You don’t want anyone else to be murdered, do you?”

“All we need is a yes, Emma,” Burroughs said, “and we’ll leave you alone.” He leaned in, his copper-penny eyes fixed on hers, and brushed his fingers lightly along her jawline, leaving a nettlelike sting.

“Stop that!” She slapped his hand away. “I’m not going to lie and say yes when it’s just not true. I—I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” Burroughs laughed. “Who do you think we are . . . the police? Do you think we’re going to read you your Miranda rights, you little—”