The Silver Mask (Magisterium #4)(9)

“I don’t know yet,” Tamara admitted. “But Ravan helped before and she’ll help with this.”

“Ravan?” Jasper said. “That was Ravan back at the Panopticon? Tamara, you can’t trust one of the Devoured, even if she was once your sister!”

Call’s mind was whirling, still thinking of what Tamara had done by breaking him out of prison. And with Anastasia Tarquin, of all people. How had Tamara and Anastasia wound up working together? What did Anastasia want?

As Jasper and Tamara kept on bickering, Call found himself staring at Tamara, memorizing her — her eyes, her tone of voice when she was annoyed, the slant of her mouth as she smiled. He was afraid he was going to lose her again. He was used to them being in trouble and having an unlikely scheme for getting out of it. He was used to them dragging an unwilling Jasper into that scheme. But before, Aaron had always been with them.

He’d always kind of assumed that everyone went along with Aaron, and since Aaron liked Call, they put up with Call, too.

Without Aaron, everything felt strange and wrong. Unbalanced. Uncertain.

Without Aaron, would Tamara still like him? Could they still be friends when there were just two of them, not three?

The thought of Aaron closed, like a cold fist around Call’s heart. Aaron ought to be here, bickering about what they were all going to do. Instead, he was gone. Call and Tamara had been left behind together. The thought made Call’s heart pound, with nerves and more.

Anastasia Tarquin came back into the room. Trailing behind her was a familiar figure in heavy robes. Tamara gasped and half rose from the couch.

It was Master Joseph.

Call started up from the couch, ready to attack, but no Chaos curled from his fingers. Even without the chain, the cuffs somehow prevented him from using any magic.

Tamara gasped. Jasper backed up a few steps and then froze, staring. Of course, the last time he’d seen Constantine’s teacher, the tomb of the Enemy of Death had been collapsing around them.

“What,” said Jasper in a strangled voice, “is he doing here?”

“Anastasia?” Tamara demanded, her voice rising. “What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with you,” Anastasia said. “Neither about myself nor about my reasons for freeing Call. You see, before I was called Anastasia Tarquin, I had another name: Eliza Madden. I was Constantine and Jericho Madden’s mother.”

Call’s heart sank.

Tamara’s eyes were huge. “What?”

“Yes,” Anastasia said. “I am sure you never thought of the Enemy of Death as having a mother, but he does. I lost both my sons, but I won’t lose Call. I am not going to let the mages lock him up to rot. And I am certainly not going to let them put him to death after some show trial.”

“Put me to … death?” Call echoed. Was that her fear talking or did she know something? Was that true?

“We were going to clear his name! Instead, you’re going to put him back in the hands of the monster responsible for you losing your sons in the first place?” Tamara demanded, gesturing at Master Joseph.

“That’s a lie,” Master Joseph said. Then he flicked his hand and sent Tamara flying back against the couch. Her body bounced against the cushions.

“You leave her alone!” Call shouted, everything else forgotten. Havoc began to growl, and fire sparked at the center of Jasper’s palm.

Master Joseph took in the sight of them pityingly. “I had hoped you might come willingly, but I am entirely capable of bringing you by force.”

Anastasia’s face was like marble. “You will not hurt Callum,” she said. “Joseph!”

She couldn’t really trust Master Joseph, could she? Call tried to stand but was knocked down by another wave from Master Joseph’s hand. Master Joseph moved his wrist, twisting it, and a vortex of wind rose from his fingers and spun toward them.

Call and Tamara were flattened against the sofa, Jasper pinned to the wall. Even Havoc was knocked to the ground, whimpering and growling over the rush of the wind.

The door flew open behind Master Joseph. Through it marched the Chaos-ridden — the mindless, zombielike followers of the Enemy of Death. Making them had been one of Constantine’s greatest crimes — and also, according to people like Master Joseph, his greatest achievement.

Implacably, the Chaos-ridden surrounded Call, Tamara, and Jasper, seizing them by the arms and marching them outside. Once they got that far, they stopped, forming a loose circle. They seemed totally bizarre and out of place in the pretty clearing with the neat little house at the center.

Anastasia and Master Joseph had come out onto the porch. Anastasia was watching Call with the same vast hunger as before. Another car gleamed in the driveway. Havoc, barking and snarling, ran around the circle, unable to approach.

Why had the Chaos-ridden stopped? Call knew they didn’t make their own decisions; they were the shells of human beings who had had chaos forced into their souls, and were totally obedient to their Master.

Their Master. Constantine Madden had made the Chaos-ridden. He was the Makar, their Master. It was the one sort of good thing about having Constantine’s soul.

Call cleared his throat. This was going to be embarrassing.

“Release me,” he said. “I am your Master. I am the Enemy of Death. His soul is like mine. Release me, Chaos-ridden.”