Cursed

“The point is,” I said quietly, “that the odds are against us. Really against us. Even if we don’t make any mistakes, there’s a good chance that anyone who goes into that manor is going to end up dead. The more restrictions we go under, the bigger that chance gets. When you’re playing odds this long, the only way to win is to use every edge you’ve got.”

I could feel Cinder’s eyes on me. Sonder looked desperately unhappy. I couldn’t really blame him; I knew it felt to him like an impossible situation. But the truth is, it’s not about what’s possible. It’s what you’re willing to live with.

But I might as well cut him a break. “Anyway, it’s not up to you,” I said. “We’re going down there, and when we do there’s going to be a fight no matter what.” I sat down on one of the rocks. “Take a look around but make sure you’re not seen.”

Sonder and Cinder moved away and I was left alone in the darkness, which suited me just fine. I scanned through the futures in which I went down there, skipping over the parts where the strands branched into a blur of combat. I didn’t try to see how it would go—fights are too chaotic to see more than a few seconds ahead. Instead I searched for openings, doors, alarms, building a mental map of the manor below.

While my mind looked through the futures, my hands moved over the weapon at my side. Most of Belthas’s men had been carrying submachine guns of a type I vaguely recognised as MP5s. Garrick had been carrying a model I hadn’t seen before, square and blocky with only the tip of the muzzle protruding from the gun, and it was this one I’d taken. It was less than a foot and a half long, made of some black polymer which was surprisingly light, with a retractable stock and laser sight. The bottom of the magazine stuck out from the handle. It held thirty rounds and I had three more full magazines stowed away. One of the men had been carrying a 1911 pistol like mine, with the addition of a silencer, and I’d taken that too. I’d also brought a handful of more dangerous things in my backpack, riding awkwardly under my cloak.

I’ve never been all that comfortable with guns. Partly it’s for practical reasons—they’re illegal, for a start, and they don’t usually get good reactions from mages—but it’s also that I just don’t like the things. Carrying a gun makes me uneasy in a way that carrying a knife doesn’t, and if I’m going out I’ll almost never take one. But I’ve used them before, and even if I’m not as good a shot as I am with throwing, I can hit a target pretty well. When you can’t use offensive magic, guns are a big equaliser, and sometimes you can’t afford to be fussy.

I sensed Cinder returning well in advance. Sonder was still back up the slope, struggling with his conscience. I waited for Cinder to get close before glancing up. He was looking down at me, arms folded. “Ice wards.”

I nodded.

“Plan?”

“I sneak inside,” I said. “I’ll try for Deleo and Luna, get as far as I can. When the shooting starts, I’ll open up a way in and you do what you do best. We go for the girls first, Belthas second.”

Cinder nodded. We both knew he’d follow my orders only as long as they suited him. I took a breath. “One more thing. If I don’t make it out, make sure Sonder and Luna get away safe. I’ll do the same for Deleo if anything happens to you.”

Cinder looked at me. Standing in the darkness, it was hard to make out his expression. An icy wind was blowing, but Cinder let it sweep over him as though he didn’t notice. Probably he didn’t.

“Why?” Cinder said.

“Why what?”

“Help them.”

“Who?”

Cinder just looked at me, as if refusing to answer such a stupid question. “Because I want to,” I said.

Cinder studied me for a moment, then nodded in the direction Sonder had gone. “You’re not one of them.”

I was silent. “Talk, don’t fight,” Cinder said. “Don’t get your hands dirty. How they think. You don’t.”

“I’m not exactly the fighting type.”

“Bullshit,” Cinder said. “You act it. Fool some people. Fooled me once. You’re a predator. You just hide it.”

I raised an eyebrow at Cinder. “Pretty weak for a predator.”

“Yeah?” Cinder said. “Last ten years. How many people tried to kill you? Don’t mean a skirmish. A proper try.”

I shrugged. “Haven’t kept count.”

Cinder nodded. “How many still alive?”

The question brought me up short. A few people had tried to kill me over the years. Actually, more than a few. Cinder and Rachel didn’t really count—they’d always been more interested in getting their piece—but Khazad did. So did Tobruk. Levistus had ordered my death through Griff and Thirteen, and Morden had done the same through Onyx. Then Garrick had tried to shoot me a few days ago, and there had been that bomb-maker at the Deptford factory. There were more—a lot more. As for how many were still alive, the answer was …

…not that many.

Most of them were dead.

In fact, most of them were dead quite specifically because of me.