“That’s a nice way of saying they all murdered each other,” I say. “Backstabbing started almost immediately as everybody vied for control, made alliances to undercut the others. Within three months the killings started. By the fourth they were all dead.”

“How do you know this?” Peter says.

“My parents were asked to join. They declined.”

“If I recall,” Chu says, “they tried to organize the big families themselves against Jean Boudreau.”

“And we all know how that turned out. They were idealists. Idealists get killed. You three want to start yourselves a little magic circle jerk, knock yourself out. But if you want to use me to raise your profile, you can fuck right the hell off.”

I slam the door on my way out. I start the car I stole with a spell and turn to head down the driveway. I don’t get very far before Letitia runs out after me. Against my better instincts, I stop and roll down the window.

“Get away from these people, Letitia. They’re gonna get you killed.”

“Look, I know what you’re thinking because I’ve thought it, too. And you’re right, what they’re trying to do is going to end up looking like the Bolsheviks raiding the Winter Palace. But there’s a reason I’m here, and we—I need your help.”

Letitia and I never knew each other well. Different circles, different friends. But when high school is 50 hormonal kids all capable of leveling the building when they have a tantrum, they force you to hang out with each other and learn to cope.

You can’t avoid cliques, but if you can get people to stand being in the same room together, there’s a better chance nobody gets turned inside out because somebody didn’t get a Valentine’s Day card.

Plus, she stabbed me in class, and once somebody sticks a knife in you, you gain a whole new respect for them. I may not know her well, but I know her well enough that I don’t think she’s lying to me.

“What do you want me to do? I’m not gonna be bait. I’m not their fucking puppet.”

“I know that. Can I show you something? It’ll explain a lot.”

“I’ve got half the mages in the city coming for my head. I don’t have time.”

“It’ll be an hour, maybe two tops.”

“Fine. Get in.” I pop the door open and she slides into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” she says.

Chapter 10

Letitia’s house in Burbank is one of the ubiquitous single-story bungalows that fill the Southland. A sort of yellow-creme color with white trim. Big bay window, a garden filled with rose bushes lining the lawn. It’s . . . cute.