When the shadows unfurled again, Mirk was prepared.

  They swarmed out of Genesis once he crossed the line of runes etched onto the ballroom floor, just like they had when he'd taken Catherine's hand. But Mirk knew how to handle them. He'd been fighting them for more than a year now. Though their motions were angry and sharp, Mirk didn't feel any threat in them.

  He let the mental shields around his mind fall away as he turned to face Genesis, closing his eyes for a moment as he held out his other hand. In the infirmary, Mirk rarely used his own magic to manage the shadows. He preferred to work around them, letting them rattle cupboards and toss rolls of bandages and empty potion bottles and curl about his ankles however they liked as long as they allowed him to heal Genesis. That wasn't an option in his godmother's ballroom, surrounded by curious mages. Many of his guests would almost welcome the shadows trying their luck with them or their dancing partners, if only to show off their own magical talents.

  Mirk wasn't taking any more risks than he needed to. Catherine wasn't a weak mage by any means and the shadows had nearly gotten the better of her. The key to managing them, Mirk had learned, wasn't raw potential, wasn't cleverness or a domineering attitude. It was a matter of listening. And patience.

  Their static was much louder than usual that night, especially with his mind laid bare. Mirk could sense what they were after without needing to open his eyes and look at them. Most were intent on making a break for Ravensdale, who was still fuming on the other side of the line of enchantments. But other shadows were after smaller, less crucial threats — a water mage whose potential flared as he gave a braying laugh at something his companion had said, an air mage whose spiraling potential carried on it the overbearing scent of her orange and sandalwood perfume.

  He cut them all off with practiced ease. Not by sending his own potential after them, but by giving them something more appealing to latch onto. Warmth to smother, life to wrap around and squeeze, a trellis of magic to climb. As always, Mirk got the uncanny feeling that the shadows recognized him, somehow. That they knew squeezing tighter wouldn't make him panic, that if they satisfied themselves with the small amount of life-giving potential he allowed them to take, there'd be more forthcoming as long as they didn't try anything underhanded. He wasn't afraid of them, no matter what new trick they came up with. And so, they no longer tried.

  "Are we...going to dance?"

  Mirk blinked his eyes open with a cough, coming back to himself and nodding. "Yes, of course, messire. I only needed a moment."

  As he nudged Genesis back a step, to account for the movement of the others and get the commander headed in the right direction, Mirk glanced around at what form his own magic had settled on that night. He rarely had a particular ornamental spell in mind when he mage danced, preferring to let his magic set its own course, adding in extra flourishes once he saw what suited his partner's magic best. He'd mage danced with several other partners that night, his godmother and Yvette, a few old friends from back home and poor, long-suffering Miss Esther who was at her absolute wit's end with Percival's moping and sniping. So much so that he hadn't even noticed someone else had claimed her for a dance while he was wrapped up in a heated discussion with Ravensdale, though her mother had. She'd grudgingly allowed it, only because Mirk was that night's host.

  With that evening's other partners, his magic had adopted one of its usual patterns — drifting flowers and leaves to better highlight the swirls of an air mage's whirlwind, unfolding blooms to accommodate the glow of a light mage's potential, strands of spun-out metal to showcase a fire mage's warmth. Genesis's magic called for something else entirely. Still accommodating, but firmer. A tall, ever-shifting latticework of branches in full bloom, matching the shadows turn for turn, constantly blossoming and dying away in a cycle that matched the swell and fade of the music. The only correction Mirk made was coaxing the flowers into shades of white and purple to match the decor rather than allowing them to manifest in every color of the rainbow.

  "I do not...understand the point of this," Genesis said, frowning down at his feet. He'd remembered the precise steps involved in the current dance, but he was just a hair off-beat. Genesis always said that it wasn't because he was incapable of following a tune, but because the musicians' tempo was always varying, speeding up and slowing in increments that no one who wasn't precisely following a metronome could track. Few metronomes, even, were as immaculately regular as Genesis's internal sense of time, as he put it.

  "It's two things now," Mirk replied, as he let himself be nudged into a spin a hair faster than was called for by the music. There was no one in the way; it wouldn't matter if they weren't matching the pace of the other dancers. "He'll be expecting that you'll use this as a chance to set up a spell to throw at him without anyone suspecting anything. And he'll be even more upset at how well Orest and Catherine dance together."

  Genesis's frown deepened as he stared through the veil of intertwined shadows and branches, presumably at Ravensdale. "You think he would be...foolish enough to attempt something here?"

  "Lord Kinross mentioned that he's done it once."

  "Because...Catherine chose to dance with...Orest."

  It was a hard thing for Genesis to understand, Mirk supposed, that sort of possessive jealousy that came so easily to most men, even if Ravensdale's was worse than most. The best of men were prone to it. Mirk had even felt the faintest edges of it himself, once that part of him that had laid long dormant had been awakened by that cursed uniform of Genesis's that he was wearing again that night, its silver ornaments flashing in the glow of the lanterns and the magic glimmering around them. At least all Mirk had to compete with was books instead of any other admirers.

  Genesis was different. Freedom was everything to him. And rather than keeping it stingily for himself, inflicting bonds on others so that he could be assured of his own freedom, Genesis was fixed on ensuring that everyone was as free as they wanted to be. The notion of keeping anyone for himself, demanding they stay with him against their will, was anathema to him.

  Orest and Catherine's affection for each other was so plain that even someone who was as blind to love as Genesis would be able to pick up on it. To Ravensdale, who was ready to attack over the smallest slight, it was as good as a slap in the face. Mirk couldn't see much of the pair beyond the magic that danced around them, but he could still feel the faintest touch of their emotions and magic. They must have been keeping near to them, either to protect themselves from Ravensdale's frustration or to be ready to counter Genesis's magic, if need be. Their care for one another was a distant warmth against Mirk's mind, mirrored by the way their magics mingled together and matched each other press for press. A challenge they both enjoyed rather than felt stifled by.

  "Methinks he really is reaching the end of his patience with Catherine," Mirk continued, when Genesis didn't reply. "If you challenged him now, with all of that on his mind, methinks he wouldn't be able to stop himself." He paused, smiling a little. "Not everyone has the same self-control you do."

  It was hard to tell what Genesis was thinking, and impossible to tell what he was feeling, even with his mind wide open and Mirk’s hands wrapped delicately in his cold, thin fingers. Mirk thought the shadows were the best clue he had. They darkened the longer Genesis stared through the haze of their magic at Ravensdale. Mirk doubted that it would slip out of Genesis's control, even though he'd told the commander not to restrain himself any, to put on a better show.

  But Mirk was selfish. And he had so few chances to be like this, closer than usual, granted the length of a single song to dream. To imagine that, rather than dancing as a diversion, a ruse meant to deflect embarrassment from his other guests and draw the ire of Ravensdale, that they had been brought together out of genuine desire. Mirk drew his senses inward and let them focus entirely on Genesis.

  It wasn't as if anyone would be watching them, anyway. They'd be watching the magic. At least, that's what Mirk told himself. And even if his guests could spot them through the haze of green and black, Mirk didn't think they'd see anything remarkable in the way they danced, bodies held at a proper distance, hands clasped only loosely, so that their magics would be drawn together rather than spinning apart under the force of the spells on the ballroom floor. The intimacy was all in Mirk's mind, in what he made of the man across from him.

  No one else would probably notice Genesis's lithe grace either, disguised as it was by his unwillingness to match his internal tempo to that of the quartet. How elegant he was, in his uniform that had not a stitch out of place, the silver trim along its edges exaggerating the length of his slender limbs, the sharp angles of his frame. And how considerate and gentle he was, despite the whip-like tendrils of magic that curled around them, shadows capable of tearing bodies and buildings and whole realms apart.

  Something deep in the pit of Mirk's stomach wanted to upset that deliberate control Genesis always kept on himself. Not for the sake of humiliating him, or out of a desire to see him stumble. But to feel his hands shake with passion rather than frustration, to see that thick mass of dark hair he always managed to keep perfectly tamed hanging loose about his shoulders, suffused with that twisting, turning, seeking magic of his. Mirk had watched the commander long enough to be able to spot the subtle tells that showed that Genesis didn't find dancing with him to be a burden, not any more. The way he clasped his hands more than kept grudging contact with them, the way he didn't hiss in annoyance and slide backward when Mirk pressed a bit too close. But Mirk would have given anything in that moment to see something more obvious, something indisputable, that couldn’t be written off as a hopeful figment of his imagination.

  He must have been daydreaming more deeply than he'd thought. The burst of magic from behind caught Mirk off-guard, made him lurch forward as if he'd been shoved. Despite Catherine's supervision, Orest was still completely untrained in mage dancing. He'd let his magic spin out too far, then had yanked too hard on it to rein it in, upsetting the balance of all the other earth mages out on the floor whose magic his own had seeped out into. Gasps and yelps of surprise rose over the sound of the music as mages bumbled into each other, both their partners and other couples.

  The shadows spiraled higher around him as Genesis caught him, keeping him from crashing face-first onto the ballroom floor. "It's fine, messire," Mirk reassured him, struggling to get his magic back under his own control before Genesis's could go reaching out for targets. He fed more of his life-giving potential into the magic the enchantments drew out of him, to offer the shadows a more appealing target than the other mages. "It's only Orest. He's as bad at mage dancing as you are."

  He needn't have worried about the shadows. Rather than lashing outward, they'd curled in, surrounding them both in a shroud of chaos that fully cut off the glow of the lanterns above and the emotions of the other mages surrounding them. Mirk let himself fall limp for a moment, leaning against Genesis's chest, savoring feeling nothing against his mind but the familiar hiss of the commander's magic.

  Then he became aware of Genesis's hand still pressed hard in the center of his back, holding him close even though there was no longer any need for it. And his own arm still wrapped around Genesis's waist. He didn't have the excuse of being tied together by yards of wire that time for a reason to cling to him like that in the middle of a ball.

  Mirk gave an awkward laugh, feeling the blood rush to his face, though he couldn't yet find the will to let go of Genesis. Not when Genesis hadn't retreated either. When he looked up, he found Genesis making one of his odd, jumbled expressions at him, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. At the moment, Mirk couldn't recall what it meant.

  "Is something wrong, Genesis?" Mirk asked, hesitant to break the silence that'd fallen between them.

  After a long pause, Genesis shook his head, his face resuming its usual blankness. But there was still something more there, Mirk thought, even as Genesis turned his attention back toward the world beyond the shadows, the veil only he could see through. There was greater focus in his gaze as he sought out Ravensdale once more. Less annoyance. As if he found his presence pressed up tight against him reassuring.

  "Can you thin them out a little? I can't feel a thing. Though methinks it'd be better if you didn't call your magic back in. The more he can see, the more he'll think you're planning something."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Genesis humored him, forcing the shadows outward again, making them less dense without making them any less numerous. Mirk felt faint prickles of apprehension and worry from the nearest couples as they backed further away from them. Beyond it, there was the amusement of his more open guests as they reoriented themselves, stepping up their pace to match the quartet, which was rushing through the remainder of the song to try to get the thing over and done with. And there was the warm, rumbling feel of Orest's mingled affection and laughter as he and Catherine spun on, oblivious to both the havoc he'd caused or the sharpening press of Ravensdale's anger, now so fierce that it'd gone from burning to freezing.

  "We almost have him," Mirk said in an involuntary whisper, as he urged Genesis back into dancing. "Just a little more. Be a little more direct."

  The shadows lifted, detaching from the dance floor, gathering as a writhing, ominous mass above their heads. Mirk reluctantly pushed himself back to a more proper distance, a half-pace away, retaking the hand that had been pressed against his back. Now that he could hear and see fully, he took stock of the situation as he pressed Genesis backward a few steps, into the final turn of the song.

  None of his guests seemed particularly perturbed, either by the disturbance from Orest or the shadows looming over them all. Most of the mages, both spinning across the floor and watching from the fringes, felt Mirk had matters well in hand, though some of the the English mages were doubtful of the merits of engaging in such frivolous entertainment with magic as powerful as Genesis's.

  It surprised him; it hadn't been the impression he'd wanted to cultivate. Mirk had always assumed that he'd forever be trapped in the role of playing the benevolent fool, the harmless mage who'd inherited more magic than he'd ever know how to put to good use. Mirk studied the faces he recognized as he slid into the final steps of the song, focusing on the older French mages, the ones who'd known Jean-Luc and what he'd been capable of. They kept their minds obscured by clouds of their potential, masking their emotions. But it was plain to see from the grudging surprise on many of their faces, and the open delight on the faces of the younger mages, especially the unattached women, that even pretending to have some kind of control over Genesis's magic had impressed them. Had convinced them that he had some power of his own.

  Then the song came to an end, with a final thrumming of strings, and a round of applause — some enthusiastic, some merely polite — filled the room. Along with the undisguised swell of Ravensdale's anger as Orest pulled one of his usual tricks with Catherine, sweeping his hat off his head and rolling it down the length of his arm, catching it in hand as he dipped into a theatrical bow. Catherine covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. Ravensdale shouldered his way through the crowd waiting to have their turn about the half of the ballroom floor spelled for mage dancing, his face a twisted mask of fury as he stormed toward Catherine.

  But he still hadn't called upon Am-Gulat.

  "He’s still not there," Mirk hissed at Genesis, still holding on to one of his hands.

  Genesis considered Ravensdale for a moment, then glanced up at the mass of shadows still twisting above them, now fully within his own control rather than being influenced by the enchantments on the dance floor. "I may have an idea. It should be adequate...should he invoke the curse..."

  Without any further explanation, Genesis set off to intercept Ravensdale, making use of that uncanny quickness of his to get between him and Catherine before Ravensdale could close the gap. Mirk scrambled to catch up with him.

  Mirk didn't reach his side fast enough to hear what Ravensdale had said to Genesis. But he did hear what Genesis said in response as he folded his hands behind his back. Mirk got the impression that was more of a threat coming from Genesis than it would have been had the commander approached Ravensdale with casting hand raised.

  "It is...evident that you are not wanted here. Leave. John Jackson."

  The effect was immediate. Ravensdale snarled and raised his casting hand high up in the air, bringing it down hard with an arcane twist that launched a bolt of air magic down on Genesis intended to knock him clear across the ballroom. Genesis didn't so much as blink. Without needing to resort to any theatrics to summon them, the shadows descended, absorbing the blast before fading away. All around the ballroom both men and women shrieked, the more combative among them lifting their casting arms in turn, searching for the source of the disturbance.

  Still, Ravensdale didn't call for Am-Gulat. Mirk decided to drive the point home, spotting what Genesis's plan had been. He stepped up beside Genesis, giving Ravensdale a confused look instead of the fearful one the mage had been expecting, his own hands held loose at his sides rather than reaching for Jean-Luc's staff in his breast pocket. "John Jackson?" Mirk asked Genesis, as loud as he could without shouting. "I've never heard that name before..."

  "The name he had before his present one. I believe...he presumes the present one to be the sort of name a...royalist mage would have."

  "Hmm. Methinks it really isn't that bad, honestly. John Jackson. I'd always thought Alistair Ravensdale was a bit, euh, much."

  Ravensdale lifted his casting hand again, cursing when his second bolt of air proved to be weaker than the first, so narrow and fleeting that Genesis merely sidestepped it instead of calling to his magic to defend himself. Though the unfortunate water mage standing some distance behind him did need to hastily conjure a shield to ward it off.

  It was all too much for Ravensdale to bear. He closed his casting hand into a fist, jerking it hard toward himself and thumping it against his chest. "Fuck you! Fucking sods, you and your bitch nob. Paul! Li-Tarek! To me!"

  Across the room, Ravensdale's men jumped to honor his command. Percival was already on his way across the room, though the crush of mages Henri was herding toward the exit kept him from coming to Ravensdale's aid. Most of the mages wanted nothing to do with what was brewing. Save for the strongest among them and the ones most hungry for a spectacle, the younger and more headstrong mages with something to prove. But there was nothing between the other commanders and the djinn Ravensdale had brought with him other than the quickly emptying dance floor. Casyn and Paul grabbed the djinn by either arm and hustled him toward Ravensdale, his collar already glowing red hot with Ravensdale's demand for more power.

  A clever man, Mirk thought, would have been suspicious that no one jumped to either his or Genesis's aid. Orest and Catherine stayed well out of the way, though Orest shrugged off his fur-lined coat. Behind Ravensdale, Margaret didn't respond to his command either. She was still beside Seigneur Rouzet, who was looking on with amusement. Even though she had no knowledge of their plan, she apparently saw no need to defend her superior. Not when her husband was already on the way. But Mirk decided to give the ruse a bit more weight, at least, finally drawing Jean-Luc's staff out of his pocket, spinning it out to fighting length.

  Ravensdale lifted his casting hand a third time. For an instant, the connection between him and the djinn's collar was clear, countless threads of multi-colored magic that grew brighter with the urgent arcane gestures Ravensdale made. Then, with a sharp crack and a rush of coldness, they all vanished.

  Alice had taken her shot. And it'd found its mark.

  The Destroyer's arrow cut through the strands of magic that connected Ravensdale to the djinn’s collar, striking near its center, right below his chin. Then the collar crumbled away into dust, along with the arrow.

  All Paul and Casyn heard was the twang of the bow and the screech of metal on metal. Rather than letting go of the djinn, they dragged him down into a crouch between them, taking cover from further bolts that never came. Mirk looked to the hidden platform just long enough to see that the illusions all around it had disappeared. But Alice hadn't. She was stuck on the platform; the teleportation spell that'd been inscribed on the wall behind her had failed along with the illusions. Cursing, she dug in her skirts for extra bolts and the lever that'd help her reload.

  "To your right!" Percival bellowed from across the room at the others, powerless to do anything to Alice without any stolen magic to channel.

  It was too late for Paul. Casyn rolled to his left just in time to avoid the pillar of flame that rose where the djinn had fallen, but Paul got caught up in it. The illusions above them, the false stone arches and all the extra vines and blossoms, fell away. And so did the one on the djinn as he straightened back up to his full height with a roar of triumph and Paul's charred and blistered body crumpled to the ground.

  Am-Gulat. Thin, haggard, his long hair loose and singed from the magic that he'd used to restore himself. But he held his head high, his raw and blistered neck free of the remnants of the collar. A mixture of bile and blood rolled down his chin and streaked down the remnants of the cheap servant's uniform he wore. But his grin was unmistakable, more fearless and sharp than ever before. He lifted his right hand above his head, the gem containing his soul clenched in his fist.

  The djinn didn't have a second to waste on Ravensdale or any of his men. Instead, Am-Gulat turned his attention toward the other djinn servants still clustered by the door to the servant's hall.

  Something in Am-Gulat’s magic, some determination or ferocity, made his words clear to Mirk. "I am Gulat Fal! And I will bow no longer! Who will stand with me? Claim your name! Take back your freedom!"

  A tense silence fell over the ballroom, just for a second. Then Am-Hazek stepped forward, his grin much more composed than his kinsman's. But his eyes glimmered with his magic.

  "Hazek Par. Already freed."

  For a moment, Ravensdale was frozen in shock. Then he was searching his pockets for some cunning device that could save him, some secondary well of magic that could put Am-Gulat back in his place. But he found nothing, as more djinn stepped forward and more and more high-born officers rushed to Ravensdale's side, to put themselves between him and Genesis, who Mirk knew was only holding back because of the promise he'd made to the djinn, that they would be the ones to finish off the man who'd held them in bondage for decades. And to keep from turning his godmother's ballroom into a bloodbath in front of the remaining nobles.

  "Paret Lon!"

  "Zarek Ral!"

  Percival had finally managed to struggle through the crowd to Ravensdale's side, along with Casyn and several of the other high-ranking officers. He smacked the cavalry commander hard upside the head, to try to jostle the magic out of him so that he could channel it himself. But Casyn wasn't swayed. His eyes, wide with terror, were fixed on Alice high up on her platform, her crossbow reloaded and ready to fire. When her eyes met his, she froze.

  "No time!" Casyn shouted at Ravensdale, who'd finally resorted to drawing a dagger from his belt. He hadn't brought along his sword that time, and, from the looks of things, he was deeply regretting it. Grabbing Ravensdale by one arm and Percival by the other, he teleported away just as a second, more mundane arrow pierced through the air where Casyn’s head had been.

  As more and more djinn stepped forward and called out their names, Mirk searched the remaining mages for his godmother and Seigneur d'Aumont. The Grand Master of Le Phare wasn't scrambling, not like the other guests fleeing the ballroom. Instead, he was headed sedately, at a pace meant not to draw any attention, toward a mage Mirk recognized from the French Teleporters Guild, some distant cousin of his uncle Henri. Before d'Aumont could reach him, Madame Beaumont stepped into his path.

  Mirk was too far away to hear what she said to him. But he witnessed, along with anyone else who was looking, what she'd saved up the last dregs of her magical potential to do. Rather than striking Seigneur d'Aumont himself, she lashed out at the eagle-headed cane he held in his right hand, prying it from him with a burst of air magic that was nearly as fierce as the one Ravensdale had flung at Genesis. Though from where Mirk stood across the ballroom, it felt more like she ripped it from his hand with the sheer force of her rage more than via anything arcane.

  Madame Beaumont crumpled to her knees. Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Seigneur d'Aumont sidestepped around her and met up with the teleporting mage, who spirited them both away from the ballroom with a clap of displaced air that wasn't loud enough to drown out the djinn still stepping forward and calling their names. Seigneur d'Aumont's cane knocked into the wall, rolling to a stop at Er-Izat's feet.

  The djinn was transfixed, both by the sight of his soul within his grasp and Am-Gulat still raging in the middle of the ballroom. Am-Gulat's magic was ten times stronger unbound than it had been all the times Mirk had crossed paths with him before. It curled around him in multicolored tendrils, the majority of them red. Though it hurt to look at Am-Gulat, he was shining so brightly, Mirk thought he spied something strange in his magic. Something dark and familiar.

  Er-Izat stooped down and picked up the cane, wrenching its head off and clenching it in his hand.

  "Er-Izat Dur," he said, his voice much softer than that of the other djinn, whose usual chilly composure had been replaced with mingled rage and triumph, a heady mixture strong enough to bring tears to Mirk's eyes. "I stand with you."

  The moment was diminished somewhat by K'aekniv charging out of the servant’s hall behind the djinn, already reaching for his swords. "Shit! Where the fuck did he go?" he shouted across the ballroom at them.

  Genesis sighed. "The City. Most likely. A...mistake. On his part."

  "What do you mean?" Mirk asked him, rolling his grandfather's staff anxiously between his palms. He felt like he needed to be in five places at once. Out front with his uncle, seeing to his frightened guests and trying to salvage the remnants of his reputation. At his godmother's side, feeding her all the life-giving potential he could spare to lessen the blow of expending the remains of her magic. Beside Genesis, ready to help if any of the remains of Ravensdale's cabal of officers decided to try to fight their way out of the ballroom.

  Genesis nodded across the ballroom floor at Am-Gulat, who was surveying his new djinn recruits with his blazing eyes. While Mirk had been distracted, the djinn's posture had shifted. Though his fierce, triumphant grin hadn't lessened any, he was beginning to hunch over as his magic dimmed, his free hand pressed against his stomach. There were more threads of black now in amongst his multicolored magic, making it easier to look at him. "Ravensdale will want to retake the other djinn before we can reach them. But Am-Gulat will be…stronger in the City. As will the rest of us."

  "Stronger? Why?"

  Am-Gulat tried to speak up again, but was wracked by a sudden fit of coughing. His magic flickered. And suddenly, instead of clenching the gem containing his soul in his hand, he was holding a long-handled war hammer, as pitch black as the odd, curling strands that had overtaken the parts of his multicolored magic that weren’t red.

  "I had...suspected as much. It is how the universe balances itself. No realm can make nothing but cas'keck . It often takes several...decades for a k'amskec to awaken to their potential."

  "A what?"

  "He is a Destroyer," Genesis said, one of his odd, vicious grins coming onto his face. "And in the City...his potential will fully awaken."

  With two Destroyers at the center of the ballroom and a horde of angry djinn along with K'aekniv standing between them and the rear exit, Mirk doubted that Genesis and the rest would need his help to deal with the remaining K'maneda who still had some loyalty to Ravensdale. His mind still reeling with shock and the reverberation of all the djinn’s emotions, Mirk ran across the ballroom to his godmother's side.