Page 34

“Jackson Pryde,” a voice said. “Don’t be so rude.”

A second man stepped out from behind some machinery, wiping his hands off on a rag. He hadn’t been hiding there, exactly, probably working on something at a separate worktable, but he’d obviously been listening.

“At least hear them out, Jack,” the man said. “They need your help to help other people. That’s worth at least a minute of your time.”

Jackson glanced at the muffin still clutched in his hand, looking like a bear who’d been caught rifling through a picnic basket. He chewed twice more, swallowed, then glumly put the muffin down.

This second man was about Jackson’s age, which meant they were both around my age, too, mid twenties or so. The premature salt-and-pepper of his hair had the odd effect of making him look even younger, the stark white mixed with jet black. He was handsome in a different way, a cool confidence in his demeanor that bordered on intimidating.

In a basic, though well-fitting gray T-shirt, he was more slender than Jackson, his hands not nearly as rough or chapped from working with tools and sturdy materials. The long fingers, their graceful motions even as he tossed the dirtied rag into a corner — this man was a mage, and a highly skilled one, at that.

“Xander Wright,” he said by way of introduction. “Flint Lockstone is a bit of a character. He’s a handful, but he means well. And Lore — well, Lore’s a good guy.”

Jackson must have noticed the curiosity on my face, how I was biting the inside of my cheeks to stop myself from blurting out a barrage of stupid questions. He lit up, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Lore is an artificer’s intelligence. My father’s invention, in fact. He’s basically family. It’s not just cogs and gears around here. Artificing can be practically anything. Talking crystals, hover boots. Sky’s the limit.”

“That’s honestly so badass,” I said, encouraged when I caught the twinkle of pride in Jackson’s eye, knowing that returning his enthusiasm would only get him to talk more.

I’d seen the same look on Morrow’s face whenever I asked him about his scrollwork. Like him, Jackson was a craftsman. Like any of the many guild members, really — an enthusiast, a huge, passionate nerd when it came to discussing his trade, his art, his favorite thing in the world.

“Does that make him your familiar?” I asked.

Jackson chuckled. Even better than a smile. Good. He was warming up to us.

“Lore’s more like a brother to me. I don’t do magic — can’t do it, actually — so I have to count on devices that make magic for me. Technically, I wouldn’t have any use for a familiar. That’s more Xander’s territory.”

Jackson looked up at Xander with a warm, sugary smile on his lips.

“But Xander doesn’t need a familiar. No offense to anyone who uses them, of course, but he’s plenty powerful on his own.”

Xander squeezed Jackson’s shoulder with a small laugh. “He’s exaggerating. But Jack is right. Artificing brings a lot of benefits for those who need a little extra oomph for their magic. It’s incredible. I’m not sure how long you had to chat — he’d talk your ear off if he had the chance — but Lore is actually a member of the baker’s guild.”

My jaw dropped. An artificer’s intelligence, a member of Mother Dough? They weren’t kidding about fulfilling wishes at the Black Market. It would be so cool to have my own little flying buddy who could magically bake me a batch of muffins. Sort of like Scrimshaw, minus all the godawful farts.

That didn’t sound like such a bad deal at all. And the amplification of power, having a backup battery from which to draw arcane essence — how had I turned such a quick one-eighty about familiars since our conversation with Scrimshaw?

“Now, how can Jackson help you gentlemen?” Xander asked.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Jackson said, looking up at Xander with a pout. “What did you guys need help with, exactly? And did either of you want a muffin?”

Nice of him to ask, and very tempting, but Morrow politely declined for us both. He pulled out his drawstring bag and poured some charms into his hand. Jackson squinted at them with an incredulous expression.

“And you’re telling me that Flint sent you to me for an assessment? This is supposed to be his territory. Isn’t this technically jewelry?”

I shrugged. “He said something about how the jewelers are more about — I don’t know, bespoke pieces or something fancy like that.”

Jackson made a face. Xander chuckled.

“The distinction he made was that these charms are clearly mass produced,” Morrow quickly added. “Which is why we needed someone who knows all about manufacturing magical objects instead of enchanting them on a smaller scale.”

“He’s right, Jack,” Xander said. “Halls of Making and all that.”

Jackson held out his hand, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Hand them over, already.”

We explained what the charms did to both mundane and magical people, down to the odd conditions that seemed to flip a switch in anyone who wore them. I could see the spark of professional curiosity in Jackson’s eyes. Xander had approached the workbench, too, leaning in for a closer look.

“The charm we’re really worried about is the full moon,” Morrow said. “Who knows how many people own them, and who knows what’s going to happen then?”