Free Solatium (Emanations, an urban fantasy series Book 2) by Becca Mills Page B

pain in the ass. Let’s just go.”
    My resolution evaporated. “Two to one — we’re going!”
    Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re just a trainee, Beth. You don’t get an equal vote.”
    “So what do I get? Half a vote?”
    “A quarter, tops.”
    “Fine. One and a quarter to one — we’re going.”
    Theo looked up at the ceiling, as though asking god for patience. “No.”
    No one said anything for a bit.
    I toyed with the fringe on a couch pillow. “What do you guys think would happen if I tried to go through the estate barrier? On my own, I mean.”
    The silence turned leaden.
    Andy looked at Theo.
    Theo looked at me.
    “Beth. Do not do that.”
    I stared at his chin for a count of five and then met his gaze. It was hard to do. I’d never seen Theo genuinely angry at me before. The look on his face was the one he wore when Cordus made him do bad shit. I teared up.
    “Jesus, T.,” Andy stage-whispered. “You’re making her cry.”
    Theo put his head in his hands and made a sound of pure frustration. When he straightened up, he looked resigned.
    “Fine. All right. The annoying moron brigade wins. We’ll go.”



Chapter 4
    “More sugar, dear?”
    “No thank you, Miss Sturluson.”
    The old woman carefully set the porcelain sugar bowl down with the rest of her tea service, then straightened up.
    Theo stirred his tea with a demitasse spoon that looked absurdly small in his big hand. The spoon clinked against the cup. It seemed inordinately loud.
    It was almost 1:00 in the morning, and I was sitting in a small, oppressively cluttered parlor drinking store-brand English breakfast with two large men and a killer granny.
    I’d had weirder experiences.
    Theo and Andy had settled on the biggest piece of furniture in the room — a loveseat — and I’d squeezed in between them, where Andy could easily include me in his barrier and both men could reach me, should we need to share capacity.
    Theo shifted, and the loveseat squealed alarmingly. I hoped it was up to the six hundred–pound task we’d imposed on it.
    Sturluson was sitting across from us in a worn armchair. I assumed she had her own barrier up.
    Not that I can tell , I thought crankily.
    The polite-tea-party game we were playing was getting to me. I needed some sleep.
    I cleared my throat. “Miss Sturluson, if you don’t mind my asking, what was it you wanted to tell us?”
    She looked at me for several seconds, smiling slightly. “How much do you three know about the Thirsting Ground?”
    “Nothing, really,” Theo said.
    She nodded, not seeming surprised. “This world knows little. Let me tell you a story.”
    I glanced at Theo. He was wearing a politely blank expression. I guess this sort of thing was par for the course.
    “Long ago,” Sturluson said, “there was a village. The people there were farmers. They’d cut a vast stretch of farmland out of the virgin forest, burning the fallen trees to nourish the soil. For some years they prospered, but they didn’t care for the land, and over time, their yields dwindled. Some wanted to move to a new place and burn again, but others had grown attached to their home. In the end, the latter group held sway, and the villagers began to search for a way to renew the soil.
    “Some years earlier, a powerful worker had been born in the village. His gift, the fixing of workings within objects, was rare and coveted. He’d been sent to the closest power for training and, when mature, had taken a high position in that lady’s court. When he heard his home village was in need, he offered his help. He hoped that a working could be fixed in the land itself, nourishing it in perpetuity with the needed elements.”
    Sturluson paused to sip her tea.
    My ears were, by this point, well and truly perked. She’d pushed my mind down a completely different track. Cordus had said the weapon Justine allegedly stole from Limu must’ve been made this way — the fixing of a working within an object.