The Interminables Read Online Free PDF Page A

twisting it around and around his finger. There had been something more in Edmund’s movement, the coiled reluctance of it, the tightly-wound grief and dread and anger: a raw and oaken sweetness edged with citrine spice, hazing about him like the lingering smell of tear gas.
    He hid it well, but Istvan always knew.
    Tomorrow was the seventh anniversary of the end of the Wizard War. Edmund had seen it through – as Magister Templeton, elected unwillingly after the disappearance of Magister Geronimo – but it had taken its toll on him.
    He’d been the only one to know anything about Shokat Anoushak. He’d obsessed over her, before the war. She was only example of a truly long-lived immortal anywhere on record, and during the years he came to visit Istvan in the Demon’s Chamber he would almost always bring sheaves of dusty documents with him, translating old stories from faded Arabic and trying to make a map of historical sightings.
    Of course the wizards had chosen him as Magister when she came back.
    And then there was the matter of Grace...
    Oh, Edmund had been dreading the memorial visit all week. Best to provide something other than gin to keep him occupied the night before.
    Ten minutes before a return to duty.
    Istvan started for the wall.
    The headquarters of the Twelfth Hour glittered. From scarlet carpet to stacked wall sconces to sunburst railings, it was a study in the worst excesses of Art Deco, an aggressively sterile structure of gold, chrome, marble, and mahogany paneling that seemed to have obliterated all of its curves in favor of yet more triangles. Blocky columns bore repeating images of stylized books and staves. Interlocking patterns spread across the ceiling, almost Moorish, lit by sunken yellow glass panels instead of proper chandeliers. The central library was three stories high, all of them dreadful.
    It had once been a gentleman’s club of sorts, named for its hours of operation and its dedication to combating magical disaster. What arrives at the end of the eleventh hour? None other than the Twelfth.
    As for the additions that had appeared with the Wizard War, well... Hindu temple architecture was sturdy, at least.
    Istvan strode past scattered tables and took the stairs rather than make a scene, enduring questioning glances from surviving wizards, allied citizenry of New Haven, and stranger things: an animated floor lamp, a giant lizard in a purple parka that stumped along on a cane, a posse of armored policemen from a possible future. A flock of ravens hopped from shelf to shelf after him, cackling to each other.
    They had all known that the Hour Thief was finally returning to real field duty after fourteen months missing and then years of sticking to nothing more than librarian work and his usual mysterious excursions by night. He was former Magister, after all. The Twelfth Hour’s calling card. The “wizard-general,” dashing and unkillable.
    It was nice that he kept the library so neat and clear of casualties, but that wasn’t why he was famous.
    Where was he now? Had something happened?
    Istvan found himself grateful that he had his own brand of fame, and no one present dared approach to ask.
    He climbed to the highest story, closest to the above-ground entrance, and found the map wall where the shelves ended. The map itself was fabric stretched over a frame, studded with colored pins that marked recent mission sites, artifact sightings, and known movements by enclaves the Twelfth Hour had an interest in watching. A table before it held the pin box, a notebook, a tray of pens, hot water, and what passed for tea.
    A tall, heavyset black woman stood before it, filling a chipped coffee mug. Greying hair spilled down her back, braided into dozens of strands.
    â€œMiss Justice,” called Istvan.
    She glanced up. She spotted him, and raised the mug to him. She wore a glittering green shirt and glittering green earrings and didn’t look at all like