The Glass Magician (The Paper Magician Trilogy #2)(58)

Emery didn’t complain, merely nodded and took the new shield chain from the Smelter. It weighed far more than its paper cousin, but Juliet was right—it was much more durable. Folding had its limits in defensive spells. Offensive, as well. But every material had its strengths and weaknesses. Emery had internalized that truth during his own apprenticeship, which he had completed nine years ago.

“The others are stationed in Brighton,” Juliet said, digging through a jacket pocket to find an address. “Send a bird to them, if you will. They’re the only warning we’ll get when Saraj arrives.”

Emery accepted the address, and Juliet pulled a lightweight, gray cardstock from the back of the automobile, perfect for camouflaging against the dreary sky. Emery Folded it carefully, forming a sturdy songbird with instructions to return upon its release, just as a true bird would.

“Juliet.”

“Hmm?”

Emery weighed the songbird in his palm. “Did they find the shed? Lira?”

The Smelter frowned. “Alfred says the local police found the sheds, even the broken mirror, but not her. Not yet.”

The words bothered him, but not the way he’d expected. He didn’t feel that familiar jab in his chest or the drip of anxiety. He felt a horsefly biting at him. He brushed it off—Lira was the least of his worries right now.

“Breathe,” Emery murmured to the songbird, and the small creature awoke in his hands. He whispered its mission, and the bird flew up from his hands, catching the wind westward toward Brighton.

Juliet sighed. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

“It won’t,” Emery said. “Not yet.”

She scoffed. “Can you be so sure?”

“Folders always are,” he replied, turning from the auto. “Let me show you the factory. Then we’ll station your men.”



Time sped forward the moment the paper bird returned.

Attuned to Emery, it found him where he hid behind the tackle shop with Juliet, flapping its now crinkled wings to land in his palm. It looked weathered and a little beaten, but still functional.

“Cease,” Emery said, and he turned the bird over. A short message was written in tiny inked words on the underside of the right wing: Staged chase, heading toward Saltdean. S may be low on blood. Cannot teleport.

Saraj Prendi was headed straight for them.

Emery passed the bird to Juliet, who pressed her lips into a thin line. “If the boys don’t get him here, my mines will. I’ve blocked any escape to the coast and farther inland, and they’re rigged only to blow when they sense his blood. After that . . . I hope your tricks are foolproof, Emery Thane.”

“If not,” he replied, “then I am a fool.”

It didn’t take long for Saraj to announce himself—a paper bird could only travel so much faster than a man. Gunshots echoed through the still, stale air of Saltdean. Not Saraj’s guns, but those belonging to the men who chased him. Perhaps they were trying to make killing shots, or the blasts could be a warning.

An explosion followed, close enough that Emery could hear sediment bouncing off the tackle shop—one of Juliet’s mines, forcing Saraj toward the factory and away from the coast.

Juliet actually smiled, her eyes narrowing. “See you there,” she said. She leapt out from behind the tackle shop, pulling from her jacket several farthing-sized bronze discs, which she threw out with the command, “Target!” The discs spun wildly in midair and shot forward, buzzing with the movement. Juliet ran after them.

Emery counted to eight before running the opposite way, looping around a hill toward the factory. A gust of wind pushed hair into his eyes, and then the breeze filled with dark, red smoke just before it died.

Emery staggered to a stop, his shoes skidding against the incline. Not ten feet before him stood Saraj Prendi, grinning with too-white teeth. So he did have enough blood to teleport.

Saraj was a lithe man in his late thirties, though perhaps he was older, for his dark skin hid what Emery normally used as signs of aging. He stood three inches taller than Emery, with narrow shoulders and long, thin arms. His narrow head came to a sharp point at the chin, and thick curls of hair stuck out unfashionably above either ear. Gold studs shimmered in his earlobes despite the lack of sun. He wore a workman’s clothes in the English style, girded about with leathers. Like Lira, he had a belt equipped with vials of cold blood, several of them empty. Only the heavens knew who had perished to fill his stock.

“Emery Thane,” he said in a smooth voice, higher than what one might have expected. “The peak of health, and yet still I move faster. Curious. I’d hoped we would run into each other, you and I. You are always the wall between me and my favorite quarries.”

Emery offered a mock bow, careful to keep his eyes on the Excisioner. “I’ll offer the first dance, but I want to know something. Why the paper mill? Why any of this? Grath wanted Ceony alive, so what’s your ploy?”

Saraj grinned. “It’s a dull game, kagaz,” he said, using the Hindi word for paper. “Grath has been a real—what’s the word? Dog. Mongrel, ever since your old pet went cold. Sniffing at doors for bones. I wanted to move on, but I couldn’t do that with Little Red anchoring Grath in England, hmm?”

Emery’s hand flew to his right coat pocket and grabbed a fistful of Folded throwing stars, which he threw toward Saraj in a wide spray. The Excisioner dodged, but not before a gunshot echoed between them and a wide gash opened on Saraj’s bare shoulder.