I looked at Scout, who nodded. “The Reapers have lost their magic,” I said.
The room got really quiet, and my heart pounded so hard I wondered if everyone could hear it.
“What do you mean, they lost their magic?” Daniel asked. “How did you learn that?”
“She—we saw a Reaper near the door at St. Sophia’s,” Scout blurted out.
I froze, then looked slowly over at her. She had totally just lied to Daniel and the Enclave, I assumed to keep me from mentioning my meeting with Sebastian. Because she thought talking to him was a bad idea that was going to get both of us in trouble—or because she wanted to keep our secret source to ourselves?
“Near the door?” Daniel asked with a frown, crossing his arms. “And he didn’t get in?”
“She didn’t get in,” Scout corrected. “She was a Reaper we’d met before, so we knew what magic she could work. But she tried the magic and it didn’t work. When her attempt at mano a mano went bad, she sprinted off.”
“But not before squealing something about how she was like the other Reapers and didn’t have magic, either,” I said.
The story sounded ridiculous even to me, but in the world of the Adepts, it probably wasn’t even on the top-ten list of strange things we’d seen in our careers. Reapers trying to break into our school? Already seen it. Fist-fighting girls? Been there, done that.
“Huh,” Daniel said. “So you’ve got firsthand info that Reapers’ magic is not working?”
“Firsthand info,” I confirmed.
I tried not to fidget beneath the other Adepts’ curious stares. Did they know I was lying? Did I look suspicious? I was definitely not made for spy games. Thankfully, before I actually started shuffling my feet and whistling nervously, there was a knock on the door.
We all braced ourselves for impact—except Daniel.
“It’s open,” he called out.
So much for security.
The door squeaked open, and Detroit walked in.
I mentioned Lesley’s fashion sense—odd, but pretty chill. Detroit’s fashion sense was much more intense—an explosion of leather, lace, feathers, and random bits of metal. Tonight she wore a long, fitted black coat with sleeves that poofed out at the hands with a shower of lace. She wore leggings and knee-high black boots beneath it, and her blond hair was carefully curled. A tiny black hat was angled on top of her head, and she wore a small black satchel diagonally across her chest. She lugged in an old leather suitcase with gold buckles across the top.
Adepts were an odd group, and Enclave Two was certainly no exception.
“What is this?” Paul asked, walking closer.
When she had the suitcase where she wanted it, she placed it down on its side, unbuckled the straps, and flipped open the top. Unlike the vintage leather and brass on the outside, the inside was all wires and buttons that looked like they’d been popped out of old typewriters. Most of Detroit’s machines looked slick and modern. This one looked like bits of junk hot-glued together. I guess that was what you got when your machinist lost her magic.
Detroit pressed one of the buttons.
Nothing happened.
She laughed nervously, then mashed the button down again. The machine clicked and then whirred into action. Little black dials flipped over on each other, and a small contraption that looked like a cheap plastic Ferris wheel began to spin.
“And what is that, exactly?” Paul asked.
She stood up again and looked proudly down at . . . whatever it was. “It’s a virus remover. It will look you over and if you’re infected with a virus that’s caused the blackout, it will get rid of it.”
Well, that was a pretty creative idea. Although it did beg one question:
“We’re infected by viruses?” Scout asked with a frown.
“I’m not sure. But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”
I guess I couldn’t argue with that.
With the toe of her shoe, she pressed another button. A flap on the other side of the machine flipped open, and a beam of light shot across the room. “I don’t have magic, but, you know, I can still make stuff. Who wants to step into the beam?”
Maybe not surprisingly, nobody raised a hand.
“Is it safe?” Jill asked, kneeling down to get a look at the machine. It buzzed and beeped as she looked at it, like the machine was filled with wicked angry bees.
“Oh, God,” Detroit said, holding out a hand. “Don’t move.”
Jill froze in her crouch, her eyes widening. “Oh, God, what? What did I do? Did I trigger something? Is it a bomb?”
The Enclave went silent.
Detroit laughed so hard she snorted. “Ah, that gets ’em every time. Seriously, it’s fine. Walk into the beam.”
“Because?” Jill asked, face wrinkled with worry.
“Because, in order for it to remove a magical virus, you have to, you know, use the machine.” She nudged Jill gently toward the beam of light.
Wincing, eyes closed, Jill put a toe into the beam. When she didn’t burst into flames, she opened one eye and checked out her foot.
“See? It’s fine. Now step all the way in, please.”
While Jill walked into the light, Detroit adjusted the dials on the suitcase. The light wavered and flickered, but that was all it did. After a moment, the light went out altogether.
Not entirely sure what to do—or what had happened—we stood there looking at each other awkwardly, then at Detroit.
The room got really quiet, and my heart pounded so hard I wondered if everyone could hear it.
“What do you mean, they lost their magic?” Daniel asked. “How did you learn that?”
“She—we saw a Reaper near the door at St. Sophia’s,” Scout blurted out.
I froze, then looked slowly over at her. She had totally just lied to Daniel and the Enclave, I assumed to keep me from mentioning my meeting with Sebastian. Because she thought talking to him was a bad idea that was going to get both of us in trouble—or because she wanted to keep our secret source to ourselves?
“Near the door?” Daniel asked with a frown, crossing his arms. “And he didn’t get in?”
“She didn’t get in,” Scout corrected. “She was a Reaper we’d met before, so we knew what magic she could work. But she tried the magic and it didn’t work. When her attempt at mano a mano went bad, she sprinted off.”
“But not before squealing something about how she was like the other Reapers and didn’t have magic, either,” I said.
The story sounded ridiculous even to me, but in the world of the Adepts, it probably wasn’t even on the top-ten list of strange things we’d seen in our careers. Reapers trying to break into our school? Already seen it. Fist-fighting girls? Been there, done that.
“Huh,” Daniel said. “So you’ve got firsthand info that Reapers’ magic is not working?”
“Firsthand info,” I confirmed.
I tried not to fidget beneath the other Adepts’ curious stares. Did they know I was lying? Did I look suspicious? I was definitely not made for spy games. Thankfully, before I actually started shuffling my feet and whistling nervously, there was a knock on the door.
We all braced ourselves for impact—except Daniel.
“It’s open,” he called out.
So much for security.
The door squeaked open, and Detroit walked in.
I mentioned Lesley’s fashion sense—odd, but pretty chill. Detroit’s fashion sense was much more intense—an explosion of leather, lace, feathers, and random bits of metal. Tonight she wore a long, fitted black coat with sleeves that poofed out at the hands with a shower of lace. She wore leggings and knee-high black boots beneath it, and her blond hair was carefully curled. A tiny black hat was angled on top of her head, and she wore a small black satchel diagonally across her chest. She lugged in an old leather suitcase with gold buckles across the top.
Adepts were an odd group, and Enclave Two was certainly no exception.
“What is this?” Paul asked, walking closer.
When she had the suitcase where she wanted it, she placed it down on its side, unbuckled the straps, and flipped open the top. Unlike the vintage leather and brass on the outside, the inside was all wires and buttons that looked like they’d been popped out of old typewriters. Most of Detroit’s machines looked slick and modern. This one looked like bits of junk hot-glued together. I guess that was what you got when your machinist lost her magic.
Detroit pressed one of the buttons.
Nothing happened.
She laughed nervously, then mashed the button down again. The machine clicked and then whirred into action. Little black dials flipped over on each other, and a small contraption that looked like a cheap plastic Ferris wheel began to spin.
“And what is that, exactly?” Paul asked.
She stood up again and looked proudly down at . . . whatever it was. “It’s a virus remover. It will look you over and if you’re infected with a virus that’s caused the blackout, it will get rid of it.”
Well, that was a pretty creative idea. Although it did beg one question:
“We’re infected by viruses?” Scout asked with a frown.
“I’m not sure. But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”
I guess I couldn’t argue with that.
With the toe of her shoe, she pressed another button. A flap on the other side of the machine flipped open, and a beam of light shot across the room. “I don’t have magic, but, you know, I can still make stuff. Who wants to step into the beam?”
Maybe not surprisingly, nobody raised a hand.
“Is it safe?” Jill asked, kneeling down to get a look at the machine. It buzzed and beeped as she looked at it, like the machine was filled with wicked angry bees.
“Oh, God,” Detroit said, holding out a hand. “Don’t move.”
Jill froze in her crouch, her eyes widening. “Oh, God, what? What did I do? Did I trigger something? Is it a bomb?”
The Enclave went silent.
Detroit laughed so hard she snorted. “Ah, that gets ’em every time. Seriously, it’s fine. Walk into the beam.”
“Because?” Jill asked, face wrinkled with worry.
“Because, in order for it to remove a magical virus, you have to, you know, use the machine.” She nudged Jill gently toward the beam of light.
Wincing, eyes closed, Jill put a toe into the beam. When she didn’t burst into flames, she opened one eye and checked out her foot.
“See? It’s fine. Now step all the way in, please.”
While Jill walked into the light, Detroit adjusted the dials on the suitcase. The light wavered and flickered, but that was all it did. After a moment, the light went out altogether.
Not entirely sure what to do—or what had happened—we stood there looking at each other awkwardly, then at Detroit.
