Wild Card by Lisa Shearin Read Free Book Online Page B

the poison or illness from progressing further. The process takes a hell of a lot of effort and stamina. The longest I’d ever heard of a stasis spell lasting was three days. After that you’d have two dead bodies on your hands—the patient and their dead-from-exhaustion healer.
    “How long ago?” I asked.
    “Two days.”
    “Damn.”
    “Yeah. Our only break is a cloaked and hooded man was seen near three of the houses where a soul abduction took place.”
    “It’s cold at night; everyone’s wrapped up.”
    “Traveling with a knee-high friend stinking of sulfur?”
    “Sounds like a dark mage with a demon familiar.”
    “That’s what we’re going with.”
    “Janek, you can’t swing a dead swamp rat without hitting a dark mage in this town. Even the Conclave produces more than their fair share.”
    The Conclave was the governing body for all magic users in the seven kingdoms. They were based on the Isle of Mid where they also had a college for students with exceptional magical talent. Most of those kids turned out just fine. Some didn’t. The Conclave prosecuted those who practiced black magic to the fullest extent of their laws. Speaking as a magic user who knew plenty of folks straddling the line between white and black magic, I’d seen the ugly results firsthand.
    The Conclave laws saw everything—especially magic and its practitioners—in black and white, light or dark. But life and the people who lived it were mostly shades of gray. Just because you practiced white magic didn’t mean you were an angel, and occasional black magic usage didn’t mean you were evil incarnate.
    Until a decade ago, those healers who’d placed those children into stasis would have been prosecuted as practicing black magic. The overturned Conclave law had said that to interfere with the natural progression of death once the soul had left the body was punishable by death.
    If you prevented a death, you’d be put to death.
    Oh yeah, that made all kinds of sense.
    As to having a familiar, magic users of any stripe could have one. But a guy seen at three of eight houses where children’s souls had been stolen with a pint-sized accomplice stinking of sulfur?
    If something looked like black magic and smelled like black magic, sometimes that’s exactly what it was.
    “Okay, how do you know it’s a man?” I hated to speak ill of my own sex, but it’d been my unfortunate experience that women were capable of more evil than men, especially when it came to children.
    “Height, shoulders, and movement.”
    Made sense. “Skin color?”
    “Too dark to see. Robe sleeves covered the hands, and the witnesses couldn’t tell if he was wearing gloves.”
    There was a knock at the door.
    A young watcher stuck his head in. “Nachtmagus Adler is here, sir.”
    “Thank you, Tom. Send her in.”
    I stood.
    “Could you stay for this, Raine? I’d like you to meet Malina.”
    I nodded once, tightly.
    I really didn’t want to be in the same room with a nachtmagus right now, even the legitimate kind. They still dealt with dead people for a living. I’d heard that most undertakers had a wonderful sense of humor, but I didn’t want to be around them, either. I knew I was going to die one of these days, probably in a messy and violent way. I’d deal with it then; I didn’t want to look its handmaid in the eye now.
    I tried to settle my face into a neutral—though open and welcome—expression. It probably looked more like a panicked grimace. 
    Janek made the introductions.
    Nachtmagus Malina Adler took one look at me and raised an eyebrow. “Mistress Benares, I assure you I left my scythe outside.”
    “That bad, huh?”
    “I hope you don’t play cards,” Janek said.
    “Mainly, I leave that to my cousin.”
    “Good. But if you ever decide to chip up, let me know. I’m always looking for a new mark to fleece.”
    “Funny.”
    “At least I’m trying.”
    I had to admit Malina Adler didn’t look like the Grim Reaper. I