Mister Impossible, Maggie Stiefvater [uplifting novels txt] 📗

from atop carved pillars. Tasteful lighting had been installed to better highlight them. If one didn’t know any better, one might mistake this for an eccentric art sale for discerning buyers.

But the pieces themselves soon corrected that impression. Jordan could feel their collective power radiating toward her. Her body felt awake, alert, ready for action. It was like caffeine. Speed.

No, it was like being real.

“In the whole world?” Fisher asked. She sounded as if she thought the question was stupid. Like Jordan was looking at a puppy for sale and asking how many puppies existed elsewhere in general. Jordan had already pegged Fisher as one of those ambitious young women who had to try harder than others to look as if they cared about people’s feelings; it was obvious that Fisher understood what polite looked like but also obvious she couldn’t always be arsed to step up.

“I don’t have that information with me. It’s not a typical question.” Fisher managed to imply that, by asking, Jordan was indicating she might not be a worthy buyer.

Jordan let this judgment breeze by. “This collection. When was it put together?”

“A few weeks ago, in London. It’s already been to Birmingham and Dublin. It’ll go to New York and then DC and Atlanta after that, if they aren’t all sold by then. Those are real bullets in those guns, by the way.”

“What?” Jordan asked. She glanced at the armed guards by the door. “Oh. How exciting for them.”

“People sometimes get stupid around the sweetmetals,” Fisher said. “Sometimes they try to take them when our backs are turned. And sometimes when they aren’t.”

“Then: Project Bullets.”

“Right. Take your time looking.” Fisher pulled out her phone. “I’m editing contracts.”

With this cool confession, Jordan had the odd sense Fisher would’ve liked to be her friend, in a different world, in different circumstances, possibly because she’d already killed and eaten all of her others. The two young women were probably about the same age, actually. They’d just taken very different roads to get to the same hole in the ground. “On your phone?”

“What else would I use?”

“What else indeed.” Jordan took one of the brochures from the little lion-footed table at the beginning of the display as Fisher retreated into her screen. She admired once again the cohesion of Boudicca’s graphic design (black background, white painted cross on each page, cleanly numbered sweetmetals, sold pieces blacked out with a Sharpie), matching the sweetmetal with the listing as she walked down the aisle. It didn’t take her long to realize they must be listed in general order of value or power, weakest to strongest.

24. Landscape, with Sheep by Augustus W. Fleming. It was a very good painting. The way the light played across the fields made the viewer feel the painter must have loved those fields very much. It was also enormous—ten feet long—and didn’t give Jordan much of a buzz, which was probably why it was considered the least valuable piece here. No one was going to commute to work with Landscape, with Sheep tucked under their arm.

23. Self-Portrait by Melissa C. Lang. According to the brochure, Lang’s portrait had been done with cosmetics directly onto an antique mirror with half its frame artistically ripped off. Jordan could feel its effect a little more than the landscape, but it was both very fragile and very ugly.

13–22. Ten vintage matching silver spoons with handles shaped like swans. Presumably there had once been an entire set of them, and together they must have been quite potent. The brochure informed Jordan that together they now had enough energy to raise a single dozing dependent or individually lend some strength to another weakening sweetmetal. These things didn’t last forever, after all.

12. The Duchess Urn. The brochure listed two—one from either side of the entrance to a Yorkshire estate. When Jordan asked Fisher what had happened to the other one, she was told it had been stolen by a woman in London and then been recovered ten miles away from London. Both the urn and woman had been broken during the chase.

11. The Damned Prince by A. Block. This abstract painting was both powerful and handsome, the brochure murmured, suitable for hanging in either a bachelor’s bedchamber or in your front hallway, depending upon who the owner wanted to keep wakeful. Jordan had told herself she would not fret over whether Declan Lynch had gotten her postcard or whether he was going to do something about it, but she was annoyed to find herself imagining what his reaction would have been to this painting, which was much like those he’d kept in the secret art space at his townhome.

7–10. The stone blue jays. The brochure built a picture of the ideal sweetmetal: something both powerful and portable, something potent enough to keep the wearer wide awake for months or years, and something that could be carried or worn discreetly by its wealthy dependent. The blue jays were very nearly good at both of these things. Each was about the size of a man’s meaty fist, so they could be slipped into a generous coat pocket, and each weighed about five pounds. They were very stealable. Jordan wasn’t stupid enough to try anything, but she was a little surprised by how tempting it was.

5–6. Garnet earrings, 1922. The earrings, badly dated, were not the loveliest of jewelry, but they were still very wearable, and they were potent enough to keep a dependent on their feet, even individually. Because of this, they were sold separately, although Boudicca would, for an additional fee, make ordinary copies available in order to allow the wearer a matching set.

4. The Afghan collar. Probably it was a dog collar. It was about six inches wide, beautifully and intricately beaded, with leather thong closures. It would fit perfectly on the dreamt sighthound of one’s choice, but it seemed a waste to use it on man’s best friend—it was potent enough to wake dependents hundreds of yards away as it passed through a