“You see, mages are humans with the ability to summon servants.”
Lady Reidlinger’s cane tapped lightly against the polished floor as she led me down a long hallway. The scent of elm lingered in the air, sharp and clean, as if the mansion had just been built. Around us, kids my age talked and laughed—normal stuff, or as normal as things could be in 1776. Large paintings of forests and oceans hung close together along the corridor.
“When the colonials first came here,” she continued, “they called us savages—or witches. The tribes called us Shamans. They hunted us for what we could do. Servants are not born, Lonnie. They are brought forth from a mage’s own energy. Mana keeps them anchored here. The stronger the mana, the more the servant can accomplish.”
“Like what?” I asked, trying to remember what Anna had taught us back home—classes, levels, how no two mages ever shared the same servant.
“Materialization, for one. Weaker mages can barely keep their servants visible; they appear like ghosts.” She smiled faintly. “And then there are Checkmates. Servants have powers that match their epithets — objects or forces tied to their legend.”
“Checkmate?” I echoed.
“Yes. Yours is Oya, correct?”
I nodded as we stepped into the bright atrium. Three of Reidlinger’s Portuguese attendants trailed quietly behind us.
“What abilities has she shown you?”
“Control of weather,” I said. “Wind. Lightning.”
“I don’t know that name personally,” she said, lowering herself carefully to the base of the staircase. “Has she shared her story with you?”
“She says she’s an Orisha. Goddess of storms, lightning, and death.”
Reidlinger studied me with weary eyes, the corners of her mouth lifting. The scent of elm was stronger near her—earthy, calming. “Those are her epithets. A goddess of storms would naturally command those forces. But your checkmate is regeneration. When Krystal and Brad brought you here, your body was already mending itself from that boy’s beating. Both ankles shattered, skull bruised, ribs cracked—and yet, you healed. Morgan monitored you the entire time to make sure it wasn’t temporary.”
That explained why Oya and I had been fine when I reappeared at April’s house. I’d pushed the trauma down and never asked why.
Through the atrium windows, I watched other mages training with their servants. Pairs clashed across the lawn—fire against vines, thunder against stone. The servants moved with fluid precision, obeying every command of their masters. One mage’s servant hurled a green blast that struck behind its fiery opponent. Vines shot up, wrapping the fire-user in seconds. The flames dimmed to embers.
Reidlinger followed my gaze. “I don’t know why Bishop Curtis targeted you. We’ve tracked him for months. You were his first direct strike.”
“What does he want with me?” I asked, folding my arms. The question scraped raw against memories of Andy’s fists. Why me? How did he even know me? I wasn’t from this world.
Anger stirred again—anger at the war, at being trapped here, at how this magic kept me from fixing my parents’ marriage. Maybe Oya was right: I’d spent my life running from what I didn’t want instead of fighting for what I did.
“I don’t know,” Reidlinger admitted. “Give us a few days. Let us train you in the basics. When you’re ready, you may leave.”
We entered a lounge lined with bookshelves and dark-wood trim. I sank onto a black linen-leather couch, its texture rough against my palms. Brad, Krystal, and Morgan stood opposite us, hands behind their backs like soldiers at parade rest. Krystal’s shoulders twitched with a restless energy she didn’t bother hiding.
I sighed. Training sounded like a trap—but also like survival. Oya deserved better than a weak master.
“So what’s next?” I asked.
Krystal broke formation, sliding onto the couch beside me. Her perfume was faintly floral; her arm draped over the back of the seat, and her chest brushed mine when she leaned close.
Her grin flashed sharp and playful.
“I’m next.”