Page 135 of The Fake Divination Offense
The parade of the Hellhounds’ team manager, rookie rogue, a bard with a guitar on his back, and two defensive tanks in full uniform sans helmets, all barreling through the private hallways of the stadium, gets us more than a few startled looks. But we rip through the place, Roesia in the lead, and by the time we get to the cheerleader locker room, I sprint ahead to gain on her.
Seb’s crouched on the ground outside the door with Thio, doing some kind of spell that involves a chalked evocation circle and several components.
He whips his head up at our approach and launches to his feet. “Can’t track him,” he snaps and kicks one of the components, a jar of mirror dust that clatters across the tiled floor. “Can’tfuckingtrack him. And I should gods-damn be able to track him—I set it into his necklace.”
My throat swells, closes. I choke out the words “What does that mean?”
Seb’s face goes gray, eyes flickering from furious to sorrowful. “It means whoever took him knew to ward him against tracking spells.”
I wheeze.
Someone really took him.
No.No.
I rip my hand up, grabbing at my hair, pacing, breathing too fast. “What do we—what the fuck do we—”
Thio stands and puts a hand on my arm, asking Seb, “What about Ilbryen? Can you track her? Maybe whoever it was took them both.”
“I can try. I bet anything Ilbryen’s got her own wards against tracking, though. I can—” He finally notes everyone crowding the hall around me.
“Bring the cavalry?” he asks, only half joking.
Roesia nudges Seb’s spell work with her toe. “No need to do another tracking spell. I can locate Mr. Warden.”
I whirl on her. “What? How?”
Roesia’s orange eyes rise to mine. She holds my gaze for what feels like a lifetime.
“I smelled the demonic ancestry on him the moment he stepped into my office,” she says.
Every ounce of blood in my body goes to ice, my thoughts screeching to a halt.
No, Bel’s illusion magic covers him. It’s—that apple smell. He’s protected.
Isn’t he?
The apples cover the smell of the magic. Not necessarily the smell ofhim.
Spots speckle my vision. It’s only through sheer force of will, of knowing Bel needs me, revelations be damned, that I don’t ask Roesia a thousand questions.
“Please,” I beg her, eyes burning, a jarring contrast to how cold I still am. “Please, find him.”
Behind us, Darian, Marlow, and Aaron are quiet. They heard. This probably makes no sense to them. But they watch, still here.
Roesia closes her eyes. Her nostrils flare, her head tips in a move so reminiscent of a hunting dog that I flinch.
After a beat, her eyes pop open, pupils blown. “This way,” she says, and she’s off like a shot.
I hurry after her, trailed by Seb and Thio, and Marlow, Darian, and Aaron.
Roesia gets to an intersection. Left would take us outside; she whirls right, and a fraction of me eases.
He’s still in the stadium.
Why?
Who took him? Why would they keep him here?
