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fingers slipped through it. Whoever set this ward really didn’t want his hiding spot disturbed. But the trouble with wards was that sometimes they didn’t just hide. They also contained. And a ward of this caliber could contain something nasty. “Where are we?”
    “What are you, retarded?”
    I looked at her for a second. “I came through a tunnel from the Warren. I don’t know what neighborhood this is.”
    “This is the Honeycomb Gap. Used to be Southside Park. It pulls metal to itself now. Gathers the iron from all over—Blair Village, Gilbert Heights, Plunket Town. Pulls it all into itself, the iron from all the factories, from the Ford Motor plant, cars from Joshua Junkyards…The Honeycomb’s right above us.
    Can’t you smell the stink?”
    The Honeycomb. Of all the hellholes, it had to be the Honeycomb.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked.
    She stuck her nose in the air. “I don’t have to tell you.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    I pulled Slayer from its sheath.
    “Whoa.” Julie crawled forward on top of the crate tower and flopped on her stomach so she could get a better look.
    I put my hand on Slayer’s blade. Magic nipped at my skin, piercing my flesh with sharp little needles. I fed a little of my magic into the metal, aimed the tip of the saber toward the stone, and pushed. Two inches from the rock a force clutched at Slayer’s tip. Thin tendrils of pale vapor curled from the sword and the magicked steel began to perspire. I gave it a little more of my power. Slayer gained another half inch and stopped.
    “I’m looking for my mom,” Julie said. “She didn’t come home on Friday. She is a witch. In a coven.”
    Probably not a professional coven. The daughters of professional witches had more meat on their bones Page 25

    and better clothes. No, most likely it was an amateur coven. Women from the poor side deluding themselves with visions of power and a better life.
    “What’s the name of the coven?”
    “The Sisters of the Crow.”
    Definitely an amateur coven. No legitimate witch would name a coven something so generic. Mythology was full of crows. With magic, you made sure to cross all your t’s and dot your i’s. The more specific, the better.
    “They met here,” Julie volunteered.
    “Right here?” I fed a little more power to the sword. It didn’t bulge.
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you ask the other witches about where your mom might have gone?”
    “Gee, I’d love to, except none of them came back.”
    I paused. “None?”
    “Nope.”
    That wasn’t good. Entire covens didn’t just disappear into thin air.
    “I’m going to break this ward. If something ugly comes out of there, run. Don’t talk to it, don’t look at it.
    Just run. You got me?”
    “Sure.” Julie’s tone plainly pointed out that she’d have to be crazy to listen to some idiot woman who doesn’t even have a gun.
    I dug my feet into the ground and pushed, putting all of my weight behind the hilt. The blade quivered under the strain. It was like trying to push a baseball into a wall of dense rubber, but giving the saber more power would leave me too drained to defend myself against a magic attack.
    Sweat broke on my forehead. Oh, screw it.
    I shot my power through the blade. With a sweet whisper, Slayer cleaved through the invisible barrier.
    Steel struck stone with a loud clang and the white rock slid an inch out of its place.
    A shudder ran through the circle. The stones blinked into reality and I scrambled to my feet. Brilliant light rippled through the air above the broken ring, a silvery aurora borealis gone mad as the forces held captive in the ward flailed, unleashed. The glow flared and streamed to the ground in a torrent of pure white. The ward burst. The magic aftershock pulsed through the building and caught me in a dizzying whirlpool. My teeth chattered, my knees shook, and I clutched at Slayer’s hilt, trying to keep the saber from slipping from my trembling fingers. Julie cried out.
    So much