Runebinder (The Runebinder Chronicles #1)(22)

Right before they rounded the block, Jarrett leaned in and whispered into Tenn’s ear, “Whatever you do, don’t kill him. The council looks down on that sort of thing. Even if it’s Caius.”

Chills raced down Tenn’s neck at the feeling of Jarrett’s breath on his skin. It didn’t take him long to figure out what he was talking about.

A man stood on a pedestal in the center of the street. He wore a faded three-piece suit that barely covered his potbelly, his messy gray hair unsuccessfully slicked back with grease. He reminded Tenn of Matthias, albeit much less refined. Despite the man’s ragged appearance, he still had a crowd. It was the only part of the city that didn’t seem to be moving. People crowded around the dais like sheep as he spoke, his words cutting above the din of the city around them.

Whatever rant or sermon he had been on cut short when Tenn and the others rounded the corner. The man sneered over at them from his perch, causing more than one head to turn. Their venom was palpable.

Water seethed.

“So, the child army returns,” the man said. He had the voice of a man who used to smoke a pack or twelve a day.

Adult mages existed, but were rare; for some reason, kids seemed more adept at attuning to and using the Spheres than adults. Although Matthias seemed to be a terrifying exception to the rule. As it was, very few people lived beyond their twenties: if you could wield magic and fight, you would probably die in battle. And if you couldn’t fight, you were probably already a Howl, or food for one.

“How many have we lost today, friends? How many souls have you handed over to Satan?”

“Ignore him,” Jarrett whispered. He took Tenn’s arm and guided them around the crowd. Small picket signs had been thrust into the grass.

MAGIC IS SIN

THE END HAS COME

Classic. Tenn had seen those since before the Resurrection, in the scant months between magic becoming mainstream and magic fucking everything up. Hell, the signs still littered the highways, more common than bodies.

Tenn envied the twins; they walked on as though completely oblivious to the world around them. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe they just hadn’t deemed the outer world worth noticing. It was a skill Tenn wished he could employ, especially right now.

“Oh, look,” Caius said. “God must have been on a break today, friends. He let the queer live.”

Jarrett grunted under his breath and said nothing, but his hand tightened on Tenn’s arm, anyway.

“It’s not worth it,” Jarrett said, dragging him on.

Tenn made sure to kick over a God Still Hates Fags poster on the way.

Behind Caius was a reinforced building that Tenn figured was the guild. The place looked like a multistory gym, though the windows were sealed and the street in front was covered in metal spikes. The only people who walked in and out were clearly Hunters—not many others wore all black and carried medieval weapons. They made their way past the blockades. Jarrett still hadn’t let go of Tenn’s arm. Dreya and Devon walked side by side, silent and smooth as ghosts.

Inside, the lobby still held the smell of a gym—the hint of bleach, the tang of rubber, the aftertaste of sweat. It felt strange walking in, dressed in leather coats and scuffed boots when, not four years ago, the place would have been crawling with soccer moms in spandex and bodybuilders with protein shakes. Now, the foyer was relatively empty. There was only a single guard behind the front desk. He gave them a perfunctory nod before going back to reading his book.

Jarrett led them through. Tenn still wanted to ask about Silveron, but something in Jarrett’s silence said that it wasn’t the time.

The back hall was flanked by workout rooms. A small group of Hunters was sparring in one room. The other was still filled with free weights and machines. Orbs of flame hovered in the corners, fueled by a Fire mage currently doing handstand push-ups. The light glimmered off metal and iron, everything within surprisingly well-maintained. It didn’t take much to figure out why the place was spotless: boredom didn’t kill, but it meant you were wasting time. If you weren’t fighting or eating or sleeping, you were training whatever way you could. Tenn knew the routine well.

The hall darkened farther in, ending with a set of stairs. The only light came from a few torches guttering along the walls. For being so big, why was there no electricity in this place? Even some of the smaller outposts he’d been in had had power. Some, at least.

“Let us know what you discover,” Dreya said. “We will be in our room.”

Jarrett nodded. Without even glancing at Tenn, the twins walked downstairs. Jarrett and Tenn watched them go.

“Well,” Jarrett said. “I guess I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” He’d spent the last few years living in communal barracks. The idea of having his own room...that wasn’t a notion he’d harbored since before leaving for Silveron.

“Yeah. Unless you want to share.” Jarrett winked at him, then continued on down the hall.

“Why are you doing that?” Tenn asked as he followed. He wasn’t certain where the words came from. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of the last few days—he was tired of feeling like he was being played with.

“Doing what?”

“Flirting with me.” Despite the initial confidence, his words died into nearly a whisper. He expected Jarrett to laugh. Or to say he hadn’t been.