Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

The SUB too.
    “Yeah, I could kill for a toffee bar and a smoothie about now,” I agreed, starting the vehicle, and turning up the blower for the heat. Septembers were usually a fickle time of the year in Massachusetts. The day could be sweltering, but also frosty by midnight. “Wait,” I sniffed at the air now circulating through the car. “Smells like a fire…”
    Joy inhaled, her diaphragm expanding slowly. “And not the good-smelling kind, either.” She moved her hand to the door handle, but did not pull.
    “Good smelling?” I asked, unsure as to what she meant.
    Joy snuffled at the air much like I had only a moment before. “Like someone’s wood stove or fireplace or something.”
    “Oh. Yeah.” Many people felt nostalgia for that scent.  This was not something I had ever experienced, but like much of my knowledge of the rest of the world, I was informed from having exhausted most shelves of the Springfield Public Library system. “I think you’re right. Definitely not the good kind.” I found myself climbing out of the hatchback before I could even tell Joy what I was about to do.
    From inside the car, I hear Joy: “Grey, look! It’s the house!” She pointed to the bay window next to the front door of the house. The curtains were dark and drawn closed, but there were definitely flames flickering in a room toward the back of the house.
    Walking briskly to the front door, I began writing out an incantation to pop open the front door. Joy beat me to it and found the door unlocked already. I used one of my last few Post-Its to write out an inquiry charm, discovering that the house had wards and protections from hostile intent, but nothing to hinder us from entering or to hurt us once we did.
    “You stay here. Please,” I implored at Joy. “Keep an  eye out—you’re my only line of defense if the arithmancers decide to get feisty.
    Joy’s jaw slacked momentarily before clinching it tight. “What am I going to do against those guys,” she hissed through her front teeth.
    “Keep an eye out—yell if you see anything coming my way.” I took a step inside, keeping an eye on her.
    Still ostensibly nervous, she relaxed. “Okay lady, no problem,” Joy impersonated Short Round from one of the Indiana Jones movies. She had made me watch them no less than 20 times each since becoming roommates. If I had not also come to love them as much as she, I would have never consented to multiple viewings.
    Sharpie in my hand, cap loose and ready for my thumb to flick it off, I treaded carefully toward the smoke at the back of the house.  Closer now, the fire turned noxious, making it difficult to breathe and see through heavily-tearing eyes. I exchanged the Sharpie for a ball-point and summoned some fresh air in my right hand. I kept that hand cupped over my mouth and nostrils like a surgical mask. Despite that, the smell was acrid and seemed through the cracks in my fingers. In the back of the house, in what may have been a study or office—it was empty space, so hard to tell—the flames were high and licked at the ceiling, engulfing most of the room’s square footage. Smoke filtered through and out of the room, but did not consume beyond the study. The fire was contained, indicating some kind of magic containment that was porous enough to allow oxygen to filter through. Furthermore, in the middle of room was a pile of miscellany: evidence burning right in front of me.
    Taking out my notepad, I began scribbling furiously and setting them around the parts of the room I could manage to reach at the edges of the bubble. As soon as I laid the last paper down, water began flowing from underneath the papers as if summoned from hidden springs. The water erupted into torrents that pressed against the containment field. After an uncertain moment or two, the water began to trickle through the field, filling it as if it were a giant, translucent water balloon. When it reached the flames in the middle, touching upon