Page 33 of Junk Magic

“The drug that turned the Were into that . . . thing, that throwback,” he said impatiently. “Sedgewick isolated it from your blood.”

I stared at him some more, trying to compute that. “I had the same dose as Colin?”

“No, you had five times as much, enough that it should have killed you. Or, more likely considering the limited effects that drugs have on your kind, it should have turned you into a monster dumped into the middle of the city. Yet it does not appear to have had any effect at all, aside from making you punch drunk.”

I would have pointed out the inadvertent pun, but I was too busy freaking out. “They planted me there like a bomb.”

Hargroves’ head inclined a fraction of an inch, like a tutor finally getting through to a particularly dense student. “Indeed. Why merely kill you when they could use you instead? Yet drug dealers would have no interest in killing civilians, some of whom might be their customers, or in inviting the attention of the Corps. We have our answer as to whether or not this drug is being weaponized by our enemies. It is.”

I swallowed thickly, and thought about that. And about what a creature like the one Colin had become could have done if it had magic at its disposal. I thought hard.

“But their plan didn’t work,” Hargroves repeated. “Despite the dosage, you did not Change. I would like to know why.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I would like to know now, Lia.”

The use of my first name shocked me enough that I met his eyes, and there were no weird sensory calisthenics happening this time. Just the usual intense, brooks-no-bullshit-here energy that I could have really done without. Because either way I answered, I was about to be completely screwed.

If I lied and he found out, or if I chose not to tell him, I’d be out of the Corps on my ass, probably immediately. He wouldn’t normally have that kind of authority—there’d have to be hearings and meetings of the disciplinary council and reams of paperwork. Getting rid of a war mage wasn’t easy, or I’d have been fired years ago.

But during a time of war?

A lot of rules got bent, and frankly I had made way more enemies than friends. A woman war mage was viewed by the old boys’ club as suspect enough. But a Were woman?

They’d been jonesing to get rid of me for ages, and this was the perfect opportunity. So, I had a decision to make, and Hargroves, damn him, had come down here to force me into it when I was woozy and barely functional. He was a bastard, but he was a smart bastard, you had to give him that.

“Of course, I could have answered the question myself,” he pointed out, as I continued to just sit there. “Or had Arturo do it for me. The blood sample he took from you could have been sent ‘round to the Corps’ best labs. But I suspected that that might cause you some . . . complications.”

I met his eyes again, this time in surprise. Had he done me a favor? And if so, why? We weren’t exactly close. He treated me the same way he did any of the younger generation of mages, as if he smelled something bad when I entered a room. But, come to think of it, he didn’t treat me any worse, which I guessed was something.

Or maybe in a time of war, any competent mage was worth preserving.

At least, I had to hope so, because I was about to risk a lot more than a job.

I put up a hand and the silence shield became opaque, darkening to the point that there weren’t even any shadows moving beyond it anymore. Hargroves glanced up and then back at me, and his lips tightened a fraction more. Another minute and he wouldn’t have any left.

“This can’t get out,” I told him.

“I surmised that.”

He waited.

I paused, trying to force out the words, but old training died hard. Especially a lifetime’s worth of it, first learned at my mother’s knee. “Never say it, Accalia,” she’d whispered, while stroking my hair. “Never let that word pass your lips.”

But, of course, it had. I’d had to tell Cyrus, since getting involved with me was arguably more dangerous than being a vargulf. Sebastian knew, too, having guessed the truth before I said anything.

It was the main reason he’d allowed me into Arnou, to protect me from Lobizon, my mother’s clan, who were determined to turn me. Or to do worse if they ever found out why they couldn’t. No one else knew the truth besides my father, and I liked it that way.

But Hargroves was right: a blood test would turn it up—if the doctors knew what to look for. And he would make sure that they did. The old man would get his answer, one way or the other; better that it came from me.

Yet I still barely got the word out.

“Neuri.” I cleared my throat, since that had been a rasp. “I was born with Neuri Syndrome.”

Hargroves didn’t so much as blink, which shouldn’t have surprised me. The immediate, savage reaction I would have gotten from almost any Were wouldn’t make sense coming from a human, most of whom wouldn’t even recognize the term. As was clearly the case here.

“It’s named after an ancient Russian tribe who were rumored to be able to Change into wolves,” I explained. “Although I’m not sure why since Changing is the one thing carriers of Neuri can never do.”

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